4th day, 1st ride, April, 1372 DR
We rode out from castle Dunbarton, triumphantly displaying the Drider head on that useless polearm Roland insists on dragging along. We were all tired, but nowhere near as tired as we were when we returned from the Flaming Tower, so we knew we would be alright. It made me realize that our trip to the Flaming Tower showed me the depth of my resilience, but also its limits. Abaddon demands that I remain resilient, but accepts and forgives my flaws as a human, and knows that I have my limitations. He relishes in my struggle to better myself, to push myself when needed. He will not be disappointed when I reach my limit, and nor should I, but I should stay true to myself and not give up early, for Abaddon knows all about all his subjects, and will know when I have failed him. I am one of his children, have accepted and survived the lightning strike which signifies his favour. He believes in me, as much as I believe in him, and that symbiosis is what gives us both strength.
I had envisioned us riding into Anathar’s Dell with the head of the Drider on display, it is one of the few ways in which I like to show off, I suppose, but Abel thought that it would not be such a good idea, considering it involved the dark elves, and the presence of many elves in Anathar’s Dell. He thought it might offend them. The short amount of time I have spent with Abel has taught me that his intellect far outweighs my own, and that in matters like this he is to be listened to, and before we rode into town we took the head off the pike and wrapped it in a blanket.
When we got to Anathar’s Arms we were quickly given the key to one of the cottages, a table near the hearth and warm food. After eating several plates, I fell asleep. I will say it again as I’ve said it before; a soldier will take his food and sleep whenever he can, because you never know when the next time will be that food or sleep is going to come around. The more I see my companions frown at my behaviour, which must seem gluttonous and curious to them, the more I realize that these southerners have hardly ever known hardships like the ones Abaddon has allowed me to endure.
I was woken up by the awful sound of someone playing a flute, or at least trying to. A rather frail looking elf by the name of Wren was going to be our troubadour for the evening, and once he put his flute away entertained us with a remarkable story. As bad as his performance with the flute had been, he made up for that in spades with his story. An epic tale of hardship and perseverance against overwhelming odds, in which a handful of strangers in a small settlement far to the north defeat a terrible foe that was about to break free from an underground prison he was locked into an aeon before. What I liked about the story is the heroes’ willingness to sacrifice themselves for their cause. I certainly don’t claim to know what’s right or wrong and neither does Abaddon care for matters of morality, but I do admire those who are committed to the point of developing a willingness to lay the most precious thing on the line; their lives.
Abaddon teaches us to persevere. To endure and to be resilient. He teaches us to be like him; everlasting and unstoppable. Who can stop the coming of a storm? Who can deny the roar of thunder, and the intensity of lightning once it has arrived?
The rest of the evening was spent talking and eating. The troubadour came up to our table for a talk, as did another guy who I had seen skulking in the corner the entire evening. Both Wren and the kid who identified himself as Ebon were looking for passage to Daggerfalls and were wonder if they could travel with us. I was a bit skeptical, as was Abel, but in the end we agreed provided they could keep up with our horses somehow.
