CLOK BBS

Heya folks. Since I have a bit of time these days, I figures I'll use this spot as a place to share some stories. It'll be a combination of his own personal entries, and the more formal entries he will record in the book of honor. There are so many untold stories happening in Clok, I figure Teek's tales should be something shared with everyone. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I'll enjoy putting them together.

Kingsday, 18th of Julium, 1216.

So, folks are saying I'm a bit too wound up and grumpy, and that I need to take up something to relax my mind. Though I would surely like to just bury my troubles with a bottle of whiskey, I'm obligated to try and find a productive means to do so. A druid told me she records her thoughts with a journal. I ain't too sure how much the lass can write about, considering her time is spent picking herbs or hugging tree's, or whatever them druids do, I figure it can't hurt.

So, where does a fella even start. I suppose it always best to start from the beginning. Well, I can't rightly say where I was born, beyond Kharneth. My father is Al Honeypot, A carpenter of no small renown, While my mother was A woman named Jennifer. I think about such things now, and it makes a fella cringe. I don't dwell on my past much, mostly because of the convoluted nature of it all, but I suppose it'll do me good to put it all down anyway.

Well, I can't tell you much about my Ma. She was a beautiful woman as I can recall, though her temperament was always on the verge of anger. She had given birth to me sometime before she met my father. No, I ain't knowing who the man who was supposed to be my father is, and even if I did, I would not consider him such. Since my first memories, Al Honeypot has been my father, and that is what is the truth of it as far as I concern myself.

Anyway, my father was smitten with her, and perhaps she cared for him in her own callous way. I spent my early years as any child wood, playing with bugs and rolling in the dirt and other such things. The details are too many and too painful to get into, but it is enough to say that my mother suffered some sort of..illness to the mind, one that my fathers love could not fix. She was always angry for one reason or another, always speaking of taking vengeance ..but at that age, I never understood for what, or why. It eventually lead to me waking up one morning and her not being there anymore. She had left a letter to my father, saying she was leaving, and that she had not time to concern herself with me.

Well, I was still quite young at the time, maybe 11 years or so, and did not really know what to think of all that. I remember asking if we should find her, but the reality is my mother was the type who would not be found unless she wanted to be. To this day I ain't too sure where she could be, though I've attempted to find her through the years. My father had a sketch of her they got from a festival, and a healer recalls treating a woman, of my mothers description, with more grey in her hair and wrinkles from the years gone by. He said she had some illness within her, and that he had done what he could before she rode off. That was some years past. I sometimes wonder if she is still alive.

After that my father was called back to the old Honeypot homestead, to take charge of the family Bee farm. There, he met and married my Stepmother, Terri, and they had for themselves a couple children, my siblings Bo and Jess. Terri was one of the Cotton folks, very dedicated to the church. She had been passing through our area as a healer, and one thing lead to another I suppose. She was a loud and boisterous woman, and though she loved my father, I got the distinct feeling she never cared for me too much, perhaps considering me extra baggage, especially after my siblings were born.

I would write more, but the folks are grumbling about this "Red Storm" nonsense again, and I got pay attention to such things. Guess I'll write about bee farming next time.

Citisday, 30th of Julium, 1216.

Sitting here in this way station, keeping an eye out for trouble, chatting up the sentry fellas. Seems like Mistral is getting it's share of trouble. While a bit far removed from Shadgard I did tell Captain Alvy I aim to keep an eye on the town. With them taking over hamlets and such, people tend to get nervous.

This new round of trouble has me thinking...what is the price of freedom? Is it so wrong to want a say in how your life is governed? Is it too much to ask for? Maybe it is. In these lands, life is harsh, and in most cases, short. Safety is a luxury few can afford..islands of light in a sea of darkness. Yet, despite the safety the people of Mistral have, some want more. Freedom. I personally can't find fault with that, my own people know very well the troubles one can have with a government like Mistral Lake..but, I am cautious about interfering in their affairs. I have a duty I have sworn, to protect the people, to keep the peace, as much as it sometimes pains me. If I let these rebellious citizens continue, I am sure peace will be lost in the chaos of disaster. Yet, am I doing my duty by letting a government who uses fear and oppression to rule continue to do so?

My experience has taught me I should not jump to rash decisions, or actions..as much as I think it is better to do so. I've spoken to a few citizens of Mistral Lake. Some are worried,but simply want to live their lives. Others want to swiftly crush this civil disturbance. My efforts to find any opinion sympathetic to these rebels have been difficult. Mistral Lake is not a town where one can speak freely. Still, it is an opinion I must hear for myself, before I can make up my own mind as to what I should do.

Either way, I'll just have to keep doing what I can to keep the peace and protect those who need protecting.

Citisday, 30th of Julium, 1216.

Violence. Why is it that creatures of Violence only understand or respect Violence. I try to..do my Duty. Keep the peace, protect the people. Lessons taught to me by better men, better woman, then I am. And yet, it is not enough. Despite my efforts, despite everything I try to do...I find myself falling short. Time and time again I feel the sting of death from a Corvite. Despite my training, despite my efforts. How is it that men armed with little more then revolvers have kept law and order against such wicked foes, foes whom can use literal darkness as a weapon, foes who spread fear in the name of an Immortal?

There is something missing in me, I feel, some lack of Patience, some kindness..something. These heroes I aspired to be like, in deed if not in word, I still fall short of the ideal. I would ask them, how do they endure such trials? These trials others seem too easy to accept and shrug off...just another part of the lost lands. Something I cannot accept. Something that I feel I must change. I must change.

It saddens me, knowing what I have to do to achieve the goals I seek. I fight monsters, and to stand against them I must become as they are. My Honor be damned. My soul be damned if need be. Somebody has to Keep these Lands safe.

Trouble stirs. The Blood cult, no doubt. I have felt this before. Immortal or no, I have work to do.

Citisday, 31th of Julium, 1216.

Made contact with a fella who was able to share some for in site into what is going on with these Mistral Rebels. None of it good. Desperation, a feeling I am growing ever more familiar with, has made them desperate enough to...do something incredibly stupid. Even in the event of such a victory, if it could even be called a victory, nothing would remain of Mistral Lake at all. It would be reduced to yet another ruin in the lost lands, a testament to our own foolishness I suspect.

Yet, for all the madness these troublemakers are trying to bring down on Mistral, I cannot fault them their dedication, even if I cannot abide what they may do. Some men would choose death over fear. I understand this mentality. Yet, to choose death for others...to canim...I cannot abide this. And yet, what can I do? I am one man in a sea of madness swirling around. As the many Corvites like to point out, I am impotent in the face of the many disasters that come my way, and can count few allies in any fight against common threats, and no friends who care to share a drink after a victory. I fear these lost lands have gotten the better of me. I witnessed a monk apologizing to a murderous monster...and yet the only thing I felt was right to do was push my spear deep into it's black heart. Damned if I get jailed by town.

I spoke to a Templar, briefly, and her faith in Serafina amazed me. Surely this woman has faced the same evils, looked into the same blackness I have? What faith is to be had after that. We face monsters and madmen...against such foes, there cannot be talk of mercy, or love. There is only Hate. Hate for my enemies. Hate for my own weakness and failures. Hate, hate, hate. It's not much, but it keeps me going.

I was able to get plenty of fishing done. Most folks do it to calm themselves. I'm finding I'm taking up these hobbies more and more. Might be the only thing keeping me from ripping off the Star and claiming vengeance in blood. On a better note, another Wyrvardn has return from duties in the wilds...or a months long binge at a tavern. I care not, as long as she can carry the shield and lead the charge. I put too much into this work, and the looks I'm gettin', every unspoken word, is telling enough on it's own. But, I've made it this far, and you can be damned sure I got a bit more left in me before I'm left a broken man. I can see the cracks, but I ain't there yet

I have too much to do, and too much hate in my heart to let anyone get in my way.