A Faerunian Tale
To Remember Again…
Blessed be this hour for good fortune has not quite smiled upon me, but perhaps tossed me a smirk. I have waited so long for the day that I may take up pen and parchment to record my thoughts and experiences in the way that this blasted skull of mine cannot. So foul is my memory that even though I have been resolved to journal my thoughts for weeks (needing only to save the pittance required for parchment, pen, and ink), it has continually escaped my mind to save even a single copper piece. Instead, any coin I earn is squandered on a pint (or ten) of ale, or to a devious dwarf at game, or to that damned stripper (whom has the most irresistible bosom…what I would give to bury my BAH!!). But now even buffoonery could not rob me of the small fortune I have earned. I can finally afford to outfit myself as a proper warrior and prepare myself for a journey abroad. And finally, I purchased the necessary tools to begin to chronicle my days and hopefully rid myself of the blind darkness that haunts the regions of my mind.
So I shall begin with the beginning, which unfortunately is not that long ago. It has been my recent misfortune (or rather as far as I know it has been my recent misfortune) to have lost any recollection of my past. Maybe not total recollection for I still retain those abilities and knowledge that seem innate to me. I speak four languages, however the time and trials that were experienced to learn those languages is completely lost to me. I know I can fight; I know I can cast; and I know that when I call myself a Duskblade my soul swells with the pride that only comes when you have touched the very thing that is the purpose of your essence. So true is my devotion to the soldiers against the dark tide that very little of my training has left me. I maintain my daily regimen and I still have my insatiable hunger for battle and thirst for honor. Even my name is that of a proper Duskblade, for I am Darian Skullbasher (one can only hope that at least that is a true memory).
My mind swirls with a constant fog that ever saps my thoughts and recollections. The earliest memory I have is of being ripped into this alien yet familiar world in the basement floor of a moat house. I have been told I was found locked away in a closet that may have been a dimensional vortex. My memory of that day is very much what I believe a child would remember if he could recall his own birth; I was pulled into Faerun bewildered, naked, and fit to curse all of those that stole me into this cavernous hell from the safety of my blackened void. Those responsible for my unrequested freedom were to become my caretakers. They outfitted me and fed me, and eventually placed a blade in my hand which sent a surge of fire through my belly and my spine. It was at that moment that I regained only a single thought…I am a warrior.
That has been my clearest memory since my release, which I believe was 7 – 10 days ago (though my ailment distorts my thoughts of time as well, so it could have been 7 – 10 weeks, months, or even years ago!). Of those that rescued me only one remains, and I suppose it is proper that it is the dwarf for they are a race carved of rock and not easily moved. There would be no better word to describe Gruuntham than that of rock (except maybe boulder). He is the only ally whose judgment I have ever trusted.
We have lost many, and it is strange that only their departures are the memories that I keep. Vlad and … B… I can’t recall his exact name. Such foulness… the man was a fellow Duskblade! I shall have to meditate on the pair tonight… at any rate they were lost to us 2 days ago when they were stolen into a vortex by a tentacle beast of some sort. I hope they have found their peace, for of the few memories I have, those of vortexes and tentacles are the most unsettling. Orzo, left without warning or reason quite abruptly the next day… I certainly don’t blame him. Lastly, there was RAYYN.
Even with the time that has passed I find it difficult to discuss that cursed Drow Elf (as if there is any other kind of Drow). He is a memory that I welcome losing. The bastard had his mind overtaken by a demon and tried to kill us all. The bravery, gallantry, and heroism that were spent in the destruction of Rayyn were the greatest that I have ever had the pleasure of forgetting. Yes, the only memory I get to keep of the tremendous event that fills those involved with pride for their valor is that Rayyn was an asshole.
Perhaps it is not my place to judge too harshly on Rayyn for I myself feel I may be cursed. It is one thing to believe your memory to be lost temporarily, but it is quite another to believe it is slowly leaking away like coin from men’s wallets as they watch Candy dance (she is quite talented really). I cannot say one way or another if my continuing amnesia is the result of spellwork or nature, but I am fed up with it. These pages shall serve as my memory and will hold the key to my respite from being labeled a mindless fool. Other than the memories recounted above I can only detail what’s left… so I go back to the evening of the night before last.