Dear Journal,
Even the howling winds cannot drown out the mocking of the Tear of Ioun. It overestimates, however, the will power of the high elves. I can more easily ignore the subtle attempts at undermining my spirit than the cyclops's obnoxious snoring. Let it taunt me. Let it inflict nagging wounds upon my flesh. It is of little consequence. I shall take great pleasure in seeing this corrupted relic destroyed. It is a shame, however, that is cannot be cleansed. One would think it a very enchanting gem if it were not for the pulsing black veins which lay tangled within its bright red core. Alas, its destruction is for the best.
Undeterred by another miserable night in this wasteland, we again pressed onward, following the cyclops's lead through the thick white nothingness. For a brief moment, the winds seem to die down, and the snowfall thinned. Through our squinted eyes we were able to make out an uneven dark line dancing across the horizon. This evidence of an approaching forest was enough to refresh our spirits, as we may be out of the open air and free of nature's wrath before the moon's next rise. However, as quickly as the storm weakened, the winds again picked up with renewed vigor. It seems the tundra felt our enthusiasm and quickly retaliated.
It is obvious, my dear Journal, that you and I are both fully aware of my memories, and thus there is no need to go into the poetic detail I sometimes utilize to recount the stories of the day, or stories of the past. However, I am well aware that I put myself in mortal peril each and every day. This is reason enough to describe in depth all that I can, for someday I will be struck down in valiant battle against the forces of destruction. This, or I shall escape these mortal shackles by grace and be rewarded with an eternity in the court of the Divine. My point is, my story and the story of my companions will one day be found by whomever discovers this text, and no doubt enshrined in legend. Keeping this in mind, I shall recount my first encounter with a cyclops.
I took to gardening like a fish to water. From an early age, I aided my mother in our family garden, improving our yield significantly through experimentation with compost and fertilization. It was obvious I should serve the citizens of Aerimir in this faculty. So it was that I, in my second decade, opened a quaint florist booth of my own within the city walls of Relaera. Over time, my skills were recognized by wealthier clients, which allowed me to purchase my own building, from which I lived and worked. I also had the honor of hiring some additional help. Under my employ was a lovely young woman named Delphi, who was also skilled in the floral arts, as my assistant. I had also hired two young satyr brothers, Zevrim and Phil as my delivery runners, since swiftness was the gift of their people.
In this particular story, Zevrim, Phil, and I were out on a large delivery to a small outdoor shrine which bordered a rift in the Feywild near which laid the lands of a nomadic group of tribal elves. This shrine was quite unique, as it held two altars beside each other for both Corellon and Melora, whom the tribal elves revered. I still pause and wonder if the apparently symbolism of this shrine was intentional. Did it mean to bring the elves of both sides together, or was it a sign of an irreversible schism?
Nevertheless, we three arrived at the shrine only to find it in shambles. Trees were toppled around the area, statues were shattered upon the ground, and the altars, though still in one piece, were defaced and chipped as if someone began to destroy it, but tired and resorted to petty vandalism. We brought our wagon to a halt, and approached the shrine cautiously, though not cautiously enough to avoid the trap.
A score of cyclopes, led by a young drow warrior, rushed in from behind us as we knelt to begin the long process of cleaning the shrine. The drow arrogantly sauntered into the clearing as his minions descended upon us. I still remember the smug look on his face as I arose and drew my sword, expecting to die in front of this cocky heretic. I also recall, with great fondness, how his face fell in the next moment.
The band of monsters was almost within spitting distance when the forest erupting in a chorus of whooping sounds which echoed through the surrounding forest, shaking the trees with thundering reverberation. The cyclopes froze in their tracks, looking all around for the source of this noise. At once the noise ceased, and the drow rushed forward, parting the band of cyclopes. He scowled at us, and then smiled slyly, asking what magical trickery we dared used again a dark elf, who he intended to imply possessed the ability to detect and avoid significant magical threats.
If left to answer, all I would have managed would have been a stammer, for I was myself confused and unnerved by the sound. However, the only answer he received was the twang of a hundred bows, as a magical veil dissipated above us in the trees, revealing members of the elfish tribe perched in the canopy. A rain of arrows descended upon our foes. Some ducked to take cover behind their comrades, hoping to flee when the flurry ended. The arrows came like a swarm, however, and each foe fell before us, each dotted with a dozen feathered arrows.
It was true. The drow, and the cyclopes alike, did possess a keen understanding of the arcane arts. However, the elves skillfully weaved the magic of the forest, whose power I came to respect that day. He and his gang of cyclopes no doubt felt a strong magic, but must have foolishly assumed it was I who wielded it when they detected my arrival. The cyclops is a clever creature, but not intelligent. He is skilled, but does not possess the brilliance to handle such skill without direction. This is why they always serve a greater evil. Often it is drow or fomorian hands which guide the fierce wrath of the puppet cyclops.
It was the tribe’s shaman, adorned with loose leather clothing, a feathered headdress, and intricate, green markings upon his exposed skin who greeting us as friends. Half of his men carried away the bodies of the fallen enemies as he and the rest of his men helped us to clear away the debris from the shrine.
Though the statues of the deities were destroyed, I had Phil and Zevrim fetch sticks from the forest and made two frames, then used the flowers from my decorations I came to deliver to cover the structures, yielding two beautifully colorful images of the divine. It was truly my greatest work, recreating the image shown by two broken stone statues in bright flowers.
So this recollection leaves me to ponder the current situation, as our guide explained to us that their warriors have been sent to the Dreknar Empire. I was not aware the cyclops had any allegiance with the teiflings. What is it that awaits us in this brute’s village? The old men and the women are left, surely, but who is it that commands these monsters? Have they journeyed to Drekar as well? I anxiously await the answers to these questions.
The others now stir from their rest, so we will soon be on our way. I hope that the gods look over us as they did that day so long ago. Until next time, Journal, may we forever walk in the light of the divine.
