25th of Garm-mah to 1st of Atash-mah, 641 S.C.

The Journal of Rafiq al-Rashid

The golden dunes of the Bahar Desert finally gave way to barren hills that marked Black Crescent territory. We knew it was a gamble, our last encounter with the mercenaries was bound to leave a sour taste and we would no doubt have some blood debt to repay. Despite the unrelenting heat, Raouf had an unusual spring in his step, maybe his last encounter with this band played out better than my own. I however, had no intention of becoming an extended guest of theirs again.

Our search led us across the rocky wastes for several miles, through dusty ravines and sharp outcroppings until we finally found our quarry. There’ looming upon one of the hilltops stood a formidable construct of steel, stone and timber. A few gilded words and some parted coin later and we were escorted through the fortress gates and into the depths of the encampment. There we were met by the unmistakable stout form and bushy beard of Samadi “Two-swords”.

And there we learned the extent of our debt. Four thousand gold pieces was to be the blood price. The price we were to pay for the men lost. And the price we would pay for Raouf to keep his head. And so a bargain was struck. We were to pay a princely deposit to leave alive and Samadi charged us with the recovery of an ancient artifact; the Scimitar of Moktor, first of the Black Crescents. With its safe return, we would prove our worth to Samadi and buy the time needed to pay our debts. And Shushan would get its army.

We purchased what supplies we could, loaded up the camels and set off once more into the desert. I remember growing up in Darvish Kapur, where any noble worth his salt could hire a sedan chair for less than a handful of gold. Whereas these beasts cost several times as much and were at least eight times as unpleasant, if such a quality was even quantifiable. They were loud, uncomfortable and there was never a moment when they didn’t smell of manure. Had they not cut our journey time down significantly, I would have been much happier on foot.

We travelled north, over the mountains and back into the vast deserts that the Bahari called home. With Maissa guiding us through the arid wastes, the golden dunes finally gave way to one of the wonders of the caliphate; known to the Bahari as The Great Oasis. The Jandisari tells us that this is the northern hub of her people, where tribes from all over come together to tell stories, trade goods and find suitable partners for their sons or daughters.

That night, despite the constant celebration ringing out from the Barahi camps, I slept better than I had done in many weeks. When dawn struck, we gathered our belongings and set off once again northward towards the rumoured location of a mysterious black pyramid. We reasoned that given the total lack of landmarks, if the Black Crescent’s scimitar would be anywhere it would be there.

Nearly a day’s travel under the beating sun brought us to the lands of the Arkas Mesa. There, under the stone gaze of the jet-black monoliths, we found a structure buried deep within the desert sands. It was protected by a magic that felt far older than anything I had encountered and took several hours to unlock more than a few words of its spell. And then, as though it took no effort at all, the spell took root in my mind, and the shifting sands around the structure suddenly fell still. Along one face of the pyramid, surrounded by runic symbols and no wider than I am tall, a small aperture appeared.  

We followed the tunnel as it snaked deep into the heart of the pyramid before opening up into a large open chamber. Six sarcophagi lay evenly spaced out along the floor, 3 on each side of the room, and one of which was buried deep in rubble that had fallen from the ceiling. Finally, along the back wall was a single shrine of white stone where upon a golden scimitar lay, bathed in light from no apparent natural source. We had found the final resting place of Moktor ibn-Jazeera but it would seem that we were not the first. There, standing by the shrine, was a hulk of a man. His long blonde hair and fair skin reminded me of the men from the north yet his long fangs and sharply pointed ears betrayed the true nature of the beast.

Spells flew and swords clashed as we fought to repel this new foe. Strange how he assaulted without provocation or warning. Maybe he was the protector of this crypt, or perhaps he was just another grave robber that found himself in the wrong place. Never the less, it was clear that for him, this was a fight to the death and we had little alternative than to comply.

Northman felled, we all turned as one to the scimitar as it lay almost defiantly on the stone. There was our prize, yet somehow I felt rooted to the spot. Strength of will alone would not be enough to command my legs forward and my hands felt as heavy as lead. I could only watch as Maissa stepped up to the sword and grasped the hilt.

And then, time froze. The room filled with a presence that filled every pit and illuminated every shadow. I felt the weight of millennia, of everything that was and everything that will be, press upon my shoulders. Under the scrutiny of an ageless gaze, I fell to my knees and sobbed.

17th of Sabze-mah, 641 S.C.

Incomplete Entry

Temple of al-Havas – the party brave the dark temple and defeat its Dark One guardians and skeletal undead before meeting Hadia Idai and her undead servants in the lower level. They defeat Hadia and return to their own plane of existence having saved the city from the Cult's dark plot.

16th of Sabze-mah, 641 S.C.

Incomplete Entry

Stop the Cult of al-Havas – the party return and rest in the City of Pearl before meeting with the Vazier who studies the Tome of Miriam. They learn of the Cult's plot to bring back the long dead leader Hadia

Idai.

Into the Shadow Space – the Vazier opens a portal to the Shadow space using the Tome of Miriam and the party ventures into the uncertain landscape looking for the Temple of al-Havas

12th of Sabze-mah, 641 S.C.

Incomplete Entry

Black Library – the party enter the upper level of the Ankivari Archives where a magical glyph of madness turns them against each other.

Dark Vault – passing the glyph the party enter the vault of the archives only to be faced by a venomous Abishai demon and three famine hound undead whom they defeat to recover the Tome of Miriam

8th - 11th of Sabze-mah, 641 S.C.

Incomplete Entry

[ Search for the Ankivari Archives – the party search for the Ankivari Archives north of the city of Darvish Kapur and encounter the Black Crescent Mercenaries and a warband of the Gondehmar ogres who have camped atop the entrance to the archives. The mercenaries are enticed to attack the Gondehmar so the party can enter the archives ]

7th of Sabze-mah, 631 S.C.

The Journal of Rafiq al-Rashid

We arrived the next morning to the smell of smoke and the sound of crowds gathering. There had been a fire in the residential quarter; the Ibn-Manarghi household had been torched overnight. The word going around is that some street urchin was responsible but got caught in the blaze while trying to escape. The lump in my throat told me that this may be the very boy we dispatched for help the night before and had we not involved him, he may still be alive.

We relayed our findings to Sharif Umar who showed concern but admitted that he was already shorthanded. If this problem was to be resolved, we were the ones who needed to resolve it.

Several hours, some kind words and some greased palms later, we found ourselves standing in the white palace itself. In front of us was a desk of the finest craftsmanship, littered with various officially stamped documents and the occasional ornate trinket. Pasdari, adorned in white robes with blue and gold sashes flanked the hallway to protect the man we were here to see: Visier Freydun al-Mosar, the most powerful man in Darvish Kupar according to some circles.

We stood in silence as the wizened old man subjected the pages to some scrutiny before offering what information he could; The pages were from the fabled Tome of Miriam, which detailed much about the elemental planes and the forces within. The pages we had recovered were just a small part of the ritual and for the Caliphate to be safe, we needed to track down the remaining parts of the book before the cult could.  

6th of Sabze-mah, 641 S.C.

The Journal of Rafiq al-Rashid

The day began with a simple errand. Collect some papers, flash your smile, sign the family name and don’t cause too much trouble. Trouble. That’s what he calls fun these days. Gone is the time when we would play monkey on the rooftops or hide from teacher. Now it is all margins and profit. But he is my brother, so I picked up his books and flashed my smile. The way I saw it, I’d earned the afternoon off and he could have his books later. The famous Manzil-e-Shamar  coffee house beckoned.

They say that you can find anything in this bazaar provided you know where to look, and Shamar’s coffee house was one such treasure. I heard talks that he pays some of the dock hands to occasionally ‘lose’ a crate of the finer import, which will always find it’s way to my table with a smile and a story to tell.

But fate dictated a different tale. I will never forget the face of Hassani ibn-Manargi, as his body slumped to the floor. The moment he stepped through the door, time slowed. I could feel the weight of the table under my hand as I propelled myself forward. The distance I needed to travel felt like an eternity. And that was when I realised that I was not alone; a woman with the trappings of a bahari but the air of a Jandisari had joined the fray.
By the time we reached him, it was too late and he had succumbed to his wounds. There was little more we could do for do for Hassani but justice needed to be served.

It didn't take long for the pasdari to arrive which signalled the end of this particular performance and I found myself face to face with the city's bulldog: Sharif Umar ibn-Pasdari. We went through the usual motions of questioning and I found myself charged with tracing Hassani’s assailant. Fortunately I was not the only one in the wrong place at the wrong time as I had found myself in the company of the Jandisari and another individual who would only refer to himself as 'Shade'.

We left that scene with zeal and purpose, but that quickly petered out when our search bore little fruit. In the end, we had but one charge left: to inform his family of the bazaari's fate. It was a duty that could not be traded or negotiated and it was the one I feared the most.
You would expect then, that when we found the family home to be unoccupied, I would be relieved but something about this felt wrong. Curiously, it did not appear that we were the only ones with interest in today’s events, two other now familiar faces were already waiting by the house when we arrived; a wall of scale and hide known as Pang and a young highborn orphan boy who answers to “Raouf”. At the time we didn’t pay them much heed, it’s not unusual for such events to draw a crowd. Nevertheless, we knocked on the door and waited for a reply.

Maybe I’m not suited for the pasdari lifestyle, or maybe I prefer the subtle, patient approach. Pang, we discovered, lacks both these qualities and the door was very quickly reduced to tinder.
What we saw was a stark contrast to what we expected; three men in attire of design unlike anything I have seen sold in these city walls. Two of them were short, slightly scruffy and had faces that you’d have trouble picking out from a crowd. The third man however, was unforgettable. They say the eye is a window to the soul, but looking through those eyes, I could not see the soul of a man. It was as though the beast within had been unchained and whatever sanity had long since fled.

Once again it appears that fate has a soft spot in her heart for me. On another day, my companions may have been market-men or ship hands and this fray would have been the first and last time I rolled dice with death. But between the five of us, this beast-man was quickly overwhelmed and the other two fled deeper into the building.

Growing up, teacher always told us that a mind must be calm and controlled in order to channel the arcane energies. Not that I paid much attention, magic was something my sister excelled in. Up until now, my education was mostly squandered on party tricks and impressing girls. It was only when that door splintered and my mortality come under full scrutiny, could I feel a thousand years of arcane teachings flow through my veins. The air froze on command and fire danced to my tune, I felt more alive in those few moments than I have ever felt before.

This newfound exhilaration quickly dissipated when I came to realise the horror that we had found ourselves standing in: the ibn-Manarghi homestead had become their tomb. The features of a woman and her child could be made out from amongst the scattered debris, their faces contorted in agony. This was not the work of Hassari blades or poison. This was butchery.

I was shaken out of my daze by the booming voice of our dragonborn companion; more bodies lay out in the next room. It appeared that even the livestock could not escape this act of wrath.
Fortunately, we had not been summoned to look at more corpses, our assailants had made no effort to conceal their tracks and a path lay leading up to a small hatch which led to a lower floor.
With any luck, the men were trapped below. As it was, we did not have time to wait them out and we could not risk there being another exit, we needed to follow them.

And in retrospect, we should have realised that they too would know this. Raouf was first to fall to their trap, a machination of searing acid which turned the ladder slick. One by one we fell, the writhe form of Shade softening my landing.

After the blows had landed and the bodies had fell, we discovered the rest of the ibn-Manarghi family. The remains of 2 young boys lay discarded by the exit we feared we would find. By the smell it became very apparent that someone had broken into this house from the city sewers.

I'm no stranger to getting my hands dirty but I have certain objections to wading knee deep in cess and sewage. And yet that day something, some unseen guide compelled us to press on.

The sewers were dark, damp and frankly an experience I hope to never repeat. Navigation was practically impossible since the sewers spanned most of the city, and you were often too preoccupied with not stepping in something foul that you’d hit your head instead.
Our search brought us to a stone staircase that continued up into a room somewhere just above our heads. Voices crept down the masonry, carrying with them the incantations of a language long dead. With the voices still ringing in our ears, we ascended the stairs and put a swift yet bloody end to their ritual before it could be completed. When the dust settled and the last foe fell, I had the opportunity to fully take in the room. It was around 30 feet from wall to wall and the centre was dominated by a large stone altar. I strode up to the altar, brushing away a corpse when I heard a clatter. A finely worked staff fell from his grip, it’s surface was a polished black and it ended in a slight hook. Upon the altar itself lay an open leather folder with 2 sheets of ancient parchment. The language was completely alien but the contents we undeniably magical.

News of this subversion had to be brought before the law, to allow it to continue would rot the very heart of our city. I picked up the pages and staff and we made way for the surface, where after we send a runner boy to take news to the Sharif such that he could assess the danger with his own eyes. However, it was long past twilight and it was unlikely Umar would be available before the dawn so we took the opportunity to scrub the dross from our clothes and get a well earned nights rest.