Opal 11, 802 
A chance encounter nearly had me striking up a proper conversation, though my words were quite rusty, as I happened upon a traveler, Cobar, while the both of us entered the hamlet of Wordsscald.
Regretably, I could not so much as ask the man what his business was on the road, any such notions were ruined as a farmer, mad with the Obin Blight, burst from their hovel and nigh instantly dug their
ivories deep into Cobar's shoulder. Within seconds he too was a slavering, hollowed out shell of his former self. I had no choice but to put the both of them down.
Every home here in Wordsscald is rife with the same sights, one or two of the Blighted Thralls looming endlessly over a corpse as I batter the door. Couples I suspect, that have succombed to the disease
and are filled with an overwhelming urge to slay their own kin, or kith, or otherwise. The closer I draw toward this Entrancegrape, the tighter my grip on this pick becomes, though I do not truly know what
my aim is when I arrive -- I must see this Sutar Taxedpuzzle. Lord of all Omon Obin
Without a moment's rest I drew myself from door to door, creaking each and every one open and without fail the same scene would play out. An innocent soul corrupted by the blight would streak forth wordlessly,
desiring nothing more than to bare its teeth into my body, and to them I would cast down the iron pick. I made no sudden movements, never, I didn't have the luxury of missteps or rash action, mine was a patient,
smoldering fury. Even so, things appeared grim more often than not.
I awaited the day that I would become like they, or perhaps in this wanton killing, I already have.
A sight darted past me in the late hours of the night, a figure who's gait was not so horrific. Chased by a pair of the Blighted Thralls, the armored pikeman crashed through another wooden door to make his final stand.
And he would be joined. He was cornered, to the gods he said his prayers, raising his weapon for battle. Abaft, I arrived, splitting into the head of one of the thralls just as he had cloven the other one asunder.
We were quiet then for a moment more, looking on at one another. He had said then, breaking the quiet, "Who the hell're you s'posed to be? Urist McClaus?" The joke was lost on me at the time, completely,
referring to the overstuffed pack weighing me down.
Dur was the one to continue speaking, he seemed to have a knack for it that I did not. "It sure is nice to see a friendly face. I take it you ain't here for a vacation." Those were the words that flowed out of his mouth
as he rested the pike upon himself. Before I could respond he added quite straightfowardly, "So, ya gonna help me clear this ol' place out fer me wife, or ya just gonna stan -- er, sit there?" How could I refuse?
The man simply had a way with words. Together the two of us charged out into the streets, drumming up as much noise as we possibly could with abandon, the living who dwelled hear, I imagine could only see us as
insanity-driven, mad, no concept of self-perserverance whatsoever. They were likely correct.
Side by side, strangers though we were, the night wheeled by as wave after wave of the infected townsfolk shuddered forth. Between my pick, and his pike, we must have put down thirty of the sad men, women,
and children who could not control their violent urges. Dur grew tired, his swipes, his pace, it had all slowed. I did what I could, but it is no surprise that sudden action is not my forte. A bronze knife had plunged itself
by way of the thralls, piercing his lungs. A mortal wound. As he doubled over, I ended the beast rightly. Thereafter, I shuffled him gently to unsullied house. There, the pikeman, the stranger Dur. There he took his last
few breaths. Some delirium must have overtaken him in those final moments.
He called out a name that meant nothing to me, they must have been one of his old friend that we'd slain together. No, that we put to proper rest together. I could say nothing even so, the accusation shocked me for
oh so many reasons that you might understand if you'd read along. And just like me, Dur turned inward, he held upon my shoulder.
Aye. Aye. . . "You did the right thing." I affirmed it, I believed it. I still believe it. At last, he spoke of his wife, Strospi, and their unborn child too. Think he'll name it Galka. The fool. . .
This is a life worth living. He breathed his last, hero to Wordsscald. I merely came along. Though I'd only known the man for a handful of hours, it was a dire blow to my heart. But his spirit will go on, and have no
trouble with judgement passed down by the gods. My pack is as heavy as ever. I remained here, with him for a time, carving an idol for the man as I had done so many before. 
Opal 13, 802 Flaxplays, how quiet this hamlet. I knew the sound, that eerie lack of sound. No beasts flying overhead, no insects chirping midst the grasses. No sounds of bustle within, neither from man nor its corrupted counterpart.
It could only mean that the latter of the won out here, that no clean-blooded folk remain. My first glance down the main thoroughfare confirmed such suspicion. Deep crimson X marks were hastily dyed onto each and every door,
demarking the entire village under quarantine. It does not sway my resolve, this desire, this need to see all that Omon Obin is, to see what it will be. Yes, yes I do despise the state of my people. I despise the thought of my good
friends, the people who were and always shall be my family, the thought of their century's long history of mining to be squandered. But as of now, I still do not know who is to blame, if anyone is to blame.
That night, one of the many doors I opened -- As ever, I raised my pick, ready to strike at the first hollow face it came across. A shape made itself known within, and so I let it fall. They let out a howl, or more a yelp, and
I barely managed to halt my blow in time. A young boy, maybe half my age or younger still, clad in ill-fitting armour clanked forth, taking hold of an iron blade just as tall as he, and lowering it my way, no doubt thinking I was
to be yet another thrall with a massive growth of cancerous flesh ready to do him in. I shouted, something along the lines of, "Fool! Don't stay in a place like this!"
What if the realm's army had marched through in hopes to cleanse the infected, abandon towns, with flames? Let alone putting yourself among the blighted ones. He couldn't muster a response, raising the oversized guard
on his helmet to see me proper. I told him to sit tight right where he was and slammed the door shut. The commotion I made had drawn the attention of those that dwelled there. . .
Turot, his name was, I learned it so as I wiped the corrupted blood from my pick. He was the last survivor of the Obin Blight here in Flaxplays, couldn't leave it, didn't know where else to go he said. He did not grieve for
the loss of his people, no tears were in his eyes, only a desire to survive. The boy was admirable, he reminded me of the same boy who cast himself into the darkness below the earth. I took pity on him. Together the two of us put Flaxplays behind. Finding a goodly hill to rest upon just as the Sun crested the horizon.[/i]
Opal 15, 802 When we awoke, eating on the rations I'd kept, Turot's head was awash with questions for me, always more questions. To list a few;
'Where'ya from?'
'What did you do there?'
'Why did you leave?'
'What's with all the figures?'
'What's wrong with your legs?'
It was difficult to answer some of which he wanted to know, but I did not feel a need to hide such things from him. I spoke my all that had occurred, I spoke of the regretful death of Bekdil Wavetwist,
I spoke of the long days spent in those caves, I spoke of carving each and every last one of these six-hundred-sixty figures as my penitence, and driving myself onward up to here as another part of the forgiveness
I sought. Can you imagine what he said? No judgments, no hate, just simply, 'Why don't you just pray, and tell her that you're sorry?' He could not have realized how his good-natured words had shocked me so,
had made me recall the feelings that welled up within after I'd cast that die the first day I'd come across it.
Even so, Turot did not linger on the topic, next from his mouth was this, 'So, you're heading to The Museum right?' The Museum? I pressed it, returned the question. And so we stayed encamped until the next day,
he recanted many things through the voice of his mother. Of this Boltspumpkin, of the Museum it held, filled to the brim with stories and objects from countless legendary heroes in the last hundred years. I was enraptured,
I'd never heard such stories save the few that the Captain would regale us in those mines. He looked on at me with such awe, pegging me as the same breed who'd slay ancient foes of man, who'd sojourn on epic quests,
and who'd return with storied songs. But I was no hero, and Boltspumpkin was not my destination.
'First we must get you somewhere safe.' I said.
'I'll come with! Ya seem. . . Lonely.' He replied.
Turot is an frenetic boy, but he puts a smile to my face. For the first time since I've begun this craft, I gently carved a momento of him to keep. Opal 16, 802 Following his guide, we arrive in Weatherponder. To our good fortunes, the place is devoid of any and all blight so far as I can tell. It was a good change. The people here are wary of strangers to an extent, this I can understand.
And yet even so Turot manages to hold good conversation here and there. I decide that I must speak with the leadership here, in hopes to better understand the situation, maybe they can shed light on this disease, seeing as their
people are unaffected. Turot manages to set us up with an audience, many abbots of the local order seem to rule here, thankfully, I am a devout man.Opal 18, 802 What is wrong with me? Turot passes me strange glances from the camp. I submerge my head 'neathe the river, guzzling, guzzling. Yet I cannot slake my thirst. This dryness in my mouth. I must truly be accursed.
Is this another labour handed down to me from on high? Have I not done enough to show my regret? I detest it.
Let me recall the prior night's events. . .
When, that night we stood before the Permanency of Chains, the main hall there in Weatherponder, I could feel something amiss in the air. I demanded that Turot stay back to his dismay, then released my bag,
he would watch over Bekdil. I did not so easily forget what I'd seen, and what I'd done in Partnerdaub and Scarletbronze. After a few steps more, the clamor I heard from on burst out into an absolute cacophony of battle.
Greenskinned little men, twisted and gnarled for who I have only heard storied as goblins rush in, out, and around the hall, chased away and killed by armoured men. Crimson flowed free against a backdrop of frigid snow,
painting that white canvas so fatally. This was not my fight. I laid low, I could do nothing but watch.
In the chaos, in the clamour, I'd spotted something. It was a sight I could not explain so easily. As the green folk died in the snow, I looked inward, a number a fat abbots within garbed in white looked on as their guards
dealt mortal blows, all of which bearing a sense of dread, or fright on their faces, perhaps it was an attack? But one of them, a pale figure, thin, they could not hold back the wicked smile on their face as they watched the
slaughter. And I could not take my eyes off her, drawn to that gaze, that flesh stretched gauntly over high cheekbones. The shadow of the abbey hid her well behind the others, but my eyes were well adapted to the dark,
a dark that I could tell this woman used herself.
As the fighting neared its close, she rose both arms and whispered black words. Before anyone had realized it, a body shambled to life within, the spitting image of those Blighted Thralls I'd cut a swath through to get her.
I could not hold back, bursting from the snow I did proclaim --
The look of surprise on all the abbots' faces at the sight of a man quickly crawling toward them, pickaxe in hand was one thing, but it did not even come close to the shock that was apparent within that woman's eyes.
She recoiled back into the hall as I charged forth, it was only then that the clergymen realized the hust within their midst, their soldiers running far off to chase down goblin kind. With one mighty swing I'd lain low the Thrall,
and readied myself for the pallid abbot who hid away. I called to her, and she called back -- Uja Hoodbathed her name, and I, Galka Kinddrummed had ruined her plan. I imagine the goblins were a distraction, a scapegoat
as well for her to propagate and blame the Obin Blight on.
It was no matter, I wasn't thinking of such at the time. My mind was overcome with fury. Not a fury for my plight, and my frustrations, but rather for the people I have come to know over my journey, and for my desiccated
homeland. I think to Dur, and to Turot the most, and how this blight destroyed that which they held dear. In my rage, I made mistakes. Uja surged forward toward me, spitting venom in her words, her speed was unmatched by any
beast I'd ever seen before. With unearthly power, she drove her bronzed dagger through my one good arm, the pain causing me to drop my only weapon. However, she gave up her only advantage. I had tensed all the muscles in
my strengthed arm, keeping the blade lodged firmly in the wound. And in that moment too, I took her down by the throat squeezing as hard as I could.
But no amount of force could seem to suck the life out of her, nor did it keep the words in her mouth, 'I curse you! I curse you! I curse you! She repeated again and again, clawing at me with her dagger-like nails, casting my
blood all over the abbey. That old Galka, the one who slunk through slick caverns and preyed on blind beasts in the deep and the dark came forth.
I tore into her neck with the only weapon left to me, her blood like a vile ichor singing my tongue.
I rent her to pieces in gruesome, primal fashion. Putting an end to who I thought to be the progenitor of the Obin Blight. The clegy folk did not utter a word to me thence as I slunk out of the hall, I would not wait for their
guard to return to see me put to the sword. I crawled back toward Turot who waited anxiously. He came over to my side to lift me upon his shoulder, I had lost too much blood, and soon after, consciousness.
And so now, here I am, by the river. Fearing that I bear an even darker disease. . .Opal 20, 802 Two days later we stood before the castle of Entrancegrape, within, supposedly, was the lord of all Omon Obin. The Law-giver to the people of the Realm of Silver. In truth, even then I did not know what I had precisely come for.
I suppose in that moment it was comeuppance. For the Deferent Abyss, for Bekdil, for all the people of the 'glorious' Realm of Silver. Turot begged me to let him join me, but I could not, I could not bear to see him under duress,
not if within those walls was a cabal of ghoulish and hateful monsters like that of Uja Hoodbathed. Again, he was set to watch over Bekdil and wait for my return.
'If I should not, live well.'
It was all I could manage at that time, my thoughts so clouded.
I opened the gate. And within. . .
Blight. I was sickened in that moment. For the armoured beast, so lacking any thoughts, any soul, any humanity, with a drive only to consume the flesh of the living, that very thrall, suffused with blight did not even seem to
realize my presence. It did not look my way even as I approached. I slew it where it stood, so as to not be drowned by that realization. Thereafter I was standing before the lord, Sutar Taxedpuzzle, no more thralls in sight.
I bit my tongue at the words I wished to speak then, he was of course, my king.
He would not budge, he would not even so much as confirm the existence of the Obin Blight. Even when I dragged the disease ridden corpse to his doorstep. No, that is when something upon his expression changed.
I demanded he do right by his people, and he responded in kind.
With a snap of his finger, descending from the heights of the central keep was another monster, this one looked to be a true foe.
Sutar sicked their blighted hound upon me without a thought, without a care in the world. His aloof actions. . . They pained the core of my being. They pained the person that I'd become after the many labours given to me,
after my sorrowful journey. I danced out of the path of the beast's weapon;
It fell upon its master's head with a sick crunch. Killing the corrupt law-giver instantly. I suppose you could say this too was karmic retribution. . . There is nothing more to speak of the incident at Entrancegrape.
I emerged, feeling no more victorious for all that had come. I could only hope that my actions have polished the realm's sheen. Tarnished still as it is. I have seen all that Omon Obin has to offer, I have completed this trial,
and I am better for it. I grow weary. Perhaps it is time that I stop living in the past, and look ahead.
Galka Kinddrummed closes shut his thickly bound journal for the last time, the same book that has survived all of his tribulations. "Come on then boy." He begins, a world-weariness in his rasping voice.
"Where to next?" Turot asked. Helping the begrudging crippled man secure his heavy pack.
"The day is young. And you've still a dream to fufil, no?" Galka's lips pursed into a bit of grin, he couldn't hold it back.
"You don't mean. . ?!"
"I do."
One month later they say a well-traveled man with arms like tree-trunks lumbered into the castle of Boltspumpkin without taking a single step, a leather backpack filled to the brim and overstuffed with carvings, a young boy riding on top, half-awake. A new item, or. . . Items were left in a quiet little corner in the heights of the eponymous Museum. A collection of sixhundred-sixty well-carven figurines, each bearing the visage of a human woman, Bekdil Wavetwist. A testament to the penitence of their little-known creator. Beneath the submission, a little plaque read simply, 'Do not hold on for too long.'
Just as soon as they came, the two were gone again.
Some two years later, The Walled Dye had completed a grand new construction, The Silent Tower. It was a place of somber worship and study, a place to lead a quiet, comfortable life. It was an attempt by the dwarves to begin their first great library, to put a pen to tapestry of history, to proclaim loudly that the Walled Dye lives, and will live on. Monuments to the heroes of the last century whom joined with the group to raise it up from the ashes there stands. They say you might see that man's face again there, overlooking from the top of the tower, plying their masterful trade. Every now and then passing a stern look over the southern kingdom of man.
OFFICIAL SUBMISSION -- 660 Bone figurines of Bekdil Wavetwist
OOC: So! That was all quite a grand time. I still have so much to say about the turn so I'll just start. I never truly intended for Galka to become a Vampire, it definitely wasn't in the plan. A strong part of me wanted him to grow old and die peacefully. I did not realize at the time that Uja was a Vampire either until I did some digging. For a good while I had honestly thought them to be another thrall or other intelligent undead, though they did seem to raise another Blighted Thrall, I don't understand how it could have appeared suddenly inside otherwise. It wasn't until I properly killed her that I noticed it. Coupling that with the tearing out of her throat and the happenstance of Galka being thirsty at the time, I almost couldn't refuse that confluence. So, for now we have a very introspective grand master bonecarver who'll live their eternity for now in the Walled Dyes newest site. Should I ever get to play him again, I'll likely explore that curse more indepth, didn't do much with it this time as it only happened at the very end of his adventure.
Speaking of which, Urdim Eshom, The Tower of Silence, is an attempt to build a grand library. Though I don't have the patience to wait many, many, many years for my dwarves to create an extensive catalog, only so much they can write and copy in two years. Even so, I hope it will give a neat, quiet place for future adventurers to visit should they be scholarly minded, or even for new adventurers to begin their career there, cloistered away in the mountains! Perhaps even aiding the Walled Dye in building a historically significant collection of books? There's a TON of writing material for one to work with should they chose to! The main library is one z-level down should you be interested. While the other side, the tower, is basically just a meta memorial to the first 64 adventurers up to Galka. Nothing crazily special mind you.
There seemed to be a main topic of interest amongst the dwarves;
Perhaps after making up with the Walled Dye folk that attacked him at Blowechoes, Galka expounded much upon the existence of this Obin Blight'.
Instead of droning on too long, here's the save! -- SAVE HEREPlease go ahead and add me on for another turn!
Hope you folks enjoyed as much as I did.
A kea stole my artifact gold short sword, haha.
Scary message right here. Turns out they did absolutely nothing but party. Didn't even murder any dwarves. Cool.
I didn't make mention of it as I couldn't easily fit it in. But in a completely abandoned human town, I came across two kobolds squatting inside a house. Turns out one of them wants to become a legendary warrior! What would you guys think about someone possessing her and making that happen? I'd be down for that! Maybe could usher in a return for Kobolds?
