Dear Journal,
Onward we have marched through the forest, shielded from the wind by the thick ocean of mighty, yet bare, trees. We are able to keep the pace with our guide much easier now, as his large, clumsy form must be more mindful of the tree branches which hang safely way above my head, and the jutting roots of the forest floor which my allies and I must often climb or walk around, while to our cyclops friend, act as snares which trip him up. While his hands are bound, he marches awkwardly, frequently struggling to maintain his balance.
This leisurely pace gives me more time to take in my surroundings. I notice, too, Alyana and Elwoz seem transfixed at times by the beauty of the forest. Even in its frozen and dorment state, Corellon's blessing abound. Alyana, as a seasoned ranger, is right at home in these woods. Elwoz, though living his life in the swamplands, seems to be calmed by the sights and sounds of the forest. His discussions with Getty are less heated and at times no louder than a whisper, much to the appreciation of our cohorts.
The calming song of the bluejay in the morning, and the wise owl's hoots as night falls bring us calm as these are signs the forest is at peace, with no obvious threat. Even so, we must retain a measure of preparation, for as I mentioned yesterday, the Feywild is a place of tricks. A trap may lay for a hundred years before a foolish traveler, consumed by the comfort of the forest, carelessly frolics into its waiting hand.
As if the potential dangers of the Feywild weren't enough to challenge our serenity, Elwoz took it upon himself to lose a few days of his rations on the trail, noticing only this morning as we shared our breakfast. Perhaps it was Getty, or one of the apparent legion of imaginary creatures he claims to be speaking with in his drunken haze. I'm not sure if it is the hangover, the embarrassment, or the lack of further fermentable rations for his incessant consumption of spirits, but he is definately grumpy at his misfortune, blaming his loss on lurking creatures in the forest. I jokingly suggested it might be the unicorn with the eyepatch or even the racist box turtle. What a curious spectacle is the madness of a feral elf!
Speaking of madness, today our halfling friend conveniently leads the march, melting the snow in our path with his untamed magical eminations. It is a rare and pleasing sight to see his involuntary manifestations work to our favor. Coupled with the occasional eruption of flame which sends him diving into the snow and flailing about, he is proving to be most entertaining as well as helpful. I wonder what it would be like to be in control of but a quarter of the power this little creature accidentally wields.
While it is evident the cold is quite bothersome to Talos, he is in much better condition than our travels across the tundra. Even then, he held the same determined stride, gritting his teeth and glaring at our cyclops guide with distrust. I do not recall if the dragonborn are cold-blooded like other reptiles, or if the descendants of dragons have blood like ours. I shall make this note to consult the library of Merkemia when I next pass through. I am not so foolish as to ask a dragonborn if his blood runs cold, lest I am prepared to parry a blow or two from an insulted paladin. Regardless, he has impressively pressed onward despite the bitter cold and encumberance from his layers of heavy, adorned platemail.
Every chance he is given, and there have been plenty on this journey, Talos attempts to catch Diesa up on at least a millenia of political history of the Kingdom, yet Diesa just nods and smiles. I suspect Talos would have to go much further back in history to give Diesa any measure of familiar context. The names and places Talos describes can't possibly have any meaning to the ancient dwarf, but he obviously listens intently to the entertaining tales, appreciating the good intentions. It is only when we touch on the subject of the gods that we three chime in equally, for the tales we share transcend the distances of time and prove to us that the dwarves haven't changed much during their time on this plane. Though Diesa speaks of Moradin with a vigor which causes me to suspect the battle in which he fell took place in a time much closer to the birth of the dwarves than now. The pride towards his god has not been taken for granted with the dull of countless generations. I have met my god and channel his power, yet I still envy Diesa's faith.
Corath, as usual, says very little, and mostly to Talos and Alyana. I understand, though. He is carefree enough around Diesa, Without, and myself to indicate he trusts us completely, but he obviously shares a deep comradary with the two original members of the 42nd. I'm told his friendship with Stovokor runs even deeper. I should like to see them together one day.
The magic here is weak, but noticable. I enjoy every step through this forest, as its link to the Feywild brings me closer to the warmth and beauty Corellon has gifted upon my people. I hope, instead of the dangers I've described, we contact a peaceful people. First, though, we must gain whatever information we can from the cyclops village. According to our friend's tale, it is but the old and the women who remain. I do not expect we shall encounter too much resistance. Perhaps we can convince them to give us information so that we may be on our way. We shall see.
It's time to rest now. We have all sat up a while as we tended to our own affairs, such as Corath and Talos sharpening their blades, Alyana sorting her pack, and Diesa saying his prayers. I shall say mine now, too, dear Journal. May Corellon watch over us in this land through which his magic peeks through. Tomorrow, says the cyclops, we shall reach our destination.
