From the Journal of Nigel Drusq

We arrived at the manor house of Frederick Carvalle this afternoon. It’s in poor shape, worse than we expected. Vines have obscured much of the east wing. The expansive veranda surrounding the third floor of the west wing has fallen into the floor below it. The gardens outside are nothing but an encroaching forest filled with tall pines that are only now giving way to far stronger oaks and hickories.

Despite all that, I can see what the Carvalle Manor had once been beneath the overgrowth and rot. A sturdy home, a powerful center for astral learning. The signs still persist despite the manor’s dilapidated state. The now obsolete astral marks are still preserved in the sides of the doorways and an ancient marble-based conductor stands, though crookedly, within the courtyard, just barely visible through the partially collapsed colonnade that runs from the west wing to the north crux.

Our boss, Elric Thomston, is less enthused than I. He cursed when he saw that the west wing’s veranda had collapsed, for the library had been beneath. All those records… The records from some of the most famous astral mages to have ever lived. All their knowledge, their creations, their successes and failures. Gone.

He’s drinking in his tent now. Says we’ll start early tomorrow—see what we can salvage.

* * *

Beautiful day. Making this trek during spring was worth all the rain and misery on the way, for now the skies have opened up. Like Frederick Carvalle is welcoming us to his legacy.

I have a picture of him—a sketch really—from the days of his prime. He’d been a handsome man with intelligent eyes that somehow manage to reflect empathy and warmness and not the condescension I would have expected from a man of his caliber. Perhaps it was the artist’s interpretation that makes him look so in this singular sketch, but somehow I doubt it. Or, at least, I hope he hadn’t been worse than the dreams my mind had come up with in all the lonely hours of our long journey. Continue reading →