#emeraldgrove

#24.

I saw Gale conjuring images of a woman, so I quietly approached to tease him. But when I got closer, I realized it was an image of Mystra, the goddess of the weave.

We ended up chatting about magic and the weave. I've known quite a few traveling wizards from living at the harbor, but none were more intensely focused or appreciative of the weave than Gale. Even in his parasited and weakened state, I could glimpse the power he once wielded.

I always thought he was strong, not showing the sorrow of loss he must feel—unlike me with my lost memories. But as we followed the flow of the weave together, I felt his sadness for the first time. I quickly glanced at him, and… did he always have such puppy-dog eyes?

Anyway, I wanted to weave a fun image to make him laugh, but I conjured an image of Gale and me walking under the moonlight. By the tides, I have no idea where that came from! I panicked and quickly cut the connection between us. Gale was surprised—but not as much as I was, I'm sure—then smiled. Thankfully, he smoothly changed the topic and we said our goodbyes.

#23.

Umm. I don't even know how to begin. I just met a devil, dear diary. A bloody devil.

We were exterminating giant spiders near the stone cliffs, and as I retrieved my lute to my back, I heard a clap. There was an obscenely well-dressed guy who randomly applauded us, then started quoting poetry. While I was puzzled and slow to react, Lae'zel and Wyll rushed to stand before us, ready to attack.

I don't know if it was just an illusion or if we were actually teleported to his lair in hell, but this Raphael guy revealed his demonic form and offered us a deal which I quickly rejected. Raphael laughed and told us to shop around as much as we wanted, then vanished.

It was only late afternoon, but we went back to camp and stayed alert. I don't think this leisurely strolling devil with his poetry would attack us at night, but better safe than sorry. We gathered by the fire and discussed what had happened.

#22.

Dear diary, we met yet another group of cultists on the road. I think it's about the third time now.

Between their immediate hostility and their senseless ranting, we haven't gotten any idea what their deal is. But for some reason, they make the parasite in my brain tingle the same way some goblins do—it's irritating. Shadowheart dislikes them a lot. The other day she suggested we give her half an hour of alone time with them, then she could make them 'docile'—which Wyll and I gently declined. I wonder what she did before being kidnapped by the nautiloid.

Anyway, this time the cultists were siblings. Mistaking us for one of them because of the worm, the eldest asked us to take care of his little brother and sister. He passed away before we had a chance to say anything. Astarion and Shadowheart just wanted to kill the remaining two, but by the tides, I couldn't.

They are right, but I couldn't kill them when they were crying on the ground, hugging their dead brother's corpse, then looking at us with sorrowful puppy eyes. Damn it. Gale and Wyll didn't seem to have a problem with killing them, but they saw my expression and took my side. Lae'zel grunted but let them go.

I know, I know. What must you be thinking, dear diary? Lae'zel and Shadowheart are right—I cannot be soft-hearted if I want to survive this mayhem. And trust me, I'm having a whole lot of training in that regard through my unwanted nightmares.

#21. Today, Wyll asked us to head in a different direction—he wanted to dedicate some time to searching for the devil he's chasing. We all agreed since we're getting sick of goblins and their foul smell. Well, except Lae'zel. She's growing more anxious by the day.

We came across an old crypt near where we first crash-landed after the nautiloid. After dealing with some scoundrels who attacked us, we ventured into the ruins. The place had a vast underground area thick with dust, but we could still sense a presence lingering in the heavy air.

When I opened an old stone casket, the air itself seemed to tremble and freeze. A being who called himself Withers rose from within. He asked us about the value of a single mortal, then simply left. As soon as he was gone, the oppressive atmosphere lifted like a retreating tide, and we could breathe freely again.

We discussed what he might have been, but found no answers. Shadowheart pointed to broken statues and symbols, telling us this was a temple of Jergal, the Final Scribe. That was all we could gather. He didn't attack us though, so all's well, as Astarion says—and I totally agree. Plus, he probably noticed we were collecting loot but didn't say anything about it! I guess to a being like him, whatever he may be, swords and coins must seem trivial.