Wait Brother, It Will Change.

As I watched Gregor the Wise untwine the child's lifeless body from the thatches of the giant stirge's nest, I was reminded of the death of my own child, Maitreya, and the life I once knew...

But today began with a return to the town's stone memorial statue whereupon was written in blood, another letter in Vesorianna's name–a sign that Gibs may be innocent of making the markings.

Tarl was suffering an interdict of his powers, and sought out atonement in the Tower of Prophesy under the more powerful hand of Brother Grimbarrow. I have come to rely upon Gregor a great deal and Gregor reminded me of our shared distrust for Father Grimbarrow, and we are now watching Tarl very closely for any indication that he may be compromised. After spending a full day with that old codger, I wouldn't be surprised if the paladin's feet rot out from beneath him. Gregor and I still hold that Grimbarrow has something to do with Harrowstone, if not the professor's death. Time will tell. Thus I waited the evening for Tarl's safe return to the manor.

That eve I indulged in some toothsome rabbit stew cooked by Kendra's house servants, during which I conversed with Urgilash to gain a better understanding of our quasi-dwarven companion. The dwarf believes he is "he who walks above ground without honor" and acts mostly as if he has a deathwish.
Sure enough, the following day Urgilash met his doom whilst falling from atop Harrowstone's decrepit balcony down to an impaling death amidst heavy beams of shattered wood. He returned to us divinely healed and bespoke in staccato stretches of seemingly incoherent statements about a Boxite mineral and of the dwarven god, Torag. He appears to have been relieved of his deathwish, and no longer considers living as a human dishonorable. This event reminded me of an old saying in Ustalav, "Wait brother, it will change." as testament to just how much can change in one day. Urgilash's death was, perhaps, the best possible outcome for all of us.

I had to laugh when the adventurer, previously known as Urgilash, finally entered the room for which he gave his life:

 "What?!", he said, "There is nothing in this room!"

  Gregor replied, "Sure there is. One would suggest–salvation."

                                                                *     *     *
Today I also had my own atoning to do–I visited the shut-in, Gibs, only to find that in my drunken stupor I poisoned his body with negative energy. I must remind myself, dear journal, not to drink heavily before administering curatives. To avoid the eye of inquisitor Bolivar, I quickly sought the aid of brother Librei who arrived to Gibs' cell at my behest to grant him divine restoration. I will return tomorrow to release Gibs, since his imprisonment has removed his name from the list of suspects presumed to be possessed by the spirit of the Harrowstone prisoner known as The Splatterman.

In the morning, Mel, our resident bard, disappeared, along with the flute belonging to the Piper of Illmarsh. Gregor, Tarl and I agreed that a message should be sent posthaste to the town of Illmarsh:

"People of Illmarsh, apprehend and arrest the bard named Mel on sight, for he may be possessed by the devil. Seize from him his flute, which may carry the evil of the spirit of the Piper of Illmarsh. Be warned, he traveled from Ravengrow this past night."

Fortunately, amidst all this chaos we've kept Kendra's mind at peace. Gregor explained to her that her "dream" was only her longing for her father, manifesting itself in the subconscious symbols of her dreaming mind. But we all know the truth–and the truth that we battled Professor Lorrimor's ghost is stranger than fiction.

But the most relieving part of our day, that part which affirms we are making good progress against the dwelling malignancy within the old prison, was our discovery of the skeletal body of Father Charlatan, slumped against his prison wall, wrapped in numerous emblazoned chains.

Tarl could sense the impostor priest's spirit still lurking within the cell. We attempted to free the hunchbacked friar's spirit by first removing his bones from the chain shackles, and then removing his remains from the cell. Tarl and I prayed for his soul and I consecrated the area then blasted out a channel of positive energy which we believe released the haunt from the area.

And thus we finally made it to the stirge nest high atop Harrowstone, and slew the bloodsucking beast in flight. Of all the horrible events of this day, it was this final visage of the blood-drained child, Cynthea, being pulled from the nest that gave me a chilling stir, and opened within my mind an old wound that I've kept buried deeper than any grave in the Restlands. Watching Gregor carry the limp, desiccated child-corpse back to town caused a swelling of tears, and a flashback for me of a happier time of life and love and family. But the story of the death of my own child is one I shall tell another time–not this year, not yet.