Jhonen's Journal
My name is Jhonen Olain, and it's my intention to chronicle the people and places of Khorvaire--indeed, of all Eberron--in the pages of this journal.
My parents say I never finish what I begin, and they may have a point. Up till now, though, the things I've begun have been decided for me. While studying to become a magewright in one of Khorvaire's greatest cities is a better fate than awaits most citizens of the twelve nations, it's a career that trades any chance of excitement and adventure for a few material comforts.
Like my journey across this world, the path of this cylopedia will not be a straight one. I expect that an archivist will edit and alphabetize all this when I'm done. In the meantime, whether you're reading this original edition in the Library of Korranberg or because you've looted it from my beast-ravaged corpse, please bear with the occasional errors and digressions.
Four days into my journey, I've found life in the wilderness more... wild than I expected. The pounding rain must be discouraging travelers less hardy than myself, so I'm afraid no famed personages will be gracing this journal's pages today.
In fact, I haven't encountered much of anything yet. I suppose I might as well start with something everyone has seen.
Khorvaire: Eberron's greatest continent, Khorvaire is the center of the civilized world. It is a diverse land that nearly all the intelligent races of Eberron call home, from halflings and elves to dwarves and humans. The continent is tracked with forests, plains, deserts and mountains, divided by rivers and surrounded to the east by islands. The two closest continents to Khorvaire are Aerenal to the southeast and Xen'Drik to the southwest.
For centuries, the kingdom of Galifar spanned the entirety of Khorvaire. In the aftermath of the brutal Last War, twelve recognized nationed forged the Treaty of Thronehold. The resulting peace has been tenuous, but the countries are linked by trade and travel across the continent is relatively unrestricted.
I could say more, but I suppose I should leave something for the rest of the cylcopedia. In the meantime, as the downpour outside my tent continues, I believe it's time to rest my eyes and dream of my sweetheart back in Korth. We'll see what adventures tomorrow holds...
We parted ways soon after leaving Karrn'ath, but I have a feeling I'll
hear from him again. Wevrik was well-traveled, and shared many stories
of distant shores, prompting my next cyclopedia entry.
Sarlona: If Khorvaire's culture and history have been driven
most significantly by magical innovation, the continent of Sarlona is
defined by powers of the mind. While not unknown in Khorvaire, psionic
abilities are a part of everyday life in the exotic cities of Sarlona.
Sarlona is divided into two nations: Riedra and Adar. These predominantly
human nations were not directly involved in The Last War, but no love
is lost between the people of Khorvaire and Sarlona. Ambassadors traveling
to Riedra must be wary of thoughtstealers as dangerous as any wizard,
and few citizens of Khorvaire's nations would willingly travel to Adar.
While common wisdom would advise against visits to Sarlona, I would love
to see Adar and Riedra with my own eyes. Before I look overseas, though,
I have more of Khorvaire to explore.
It
has been a month since I last opened this journal. In that time, the excitement
of my experiences has afforded me little opportunity to write. During
a difficult, lonely journey across the twisted terrain of the Demon Wastes,
I was ambushed by unknown assailants. Taken by surprise, my training as
a hunter and marksman was of little use. I would have surely been killed,
had I not been rescued by two Silver Flame pilgrims. The pilgrims, twin
brother and sister, bandaged my wounds and identified the attackers as
servants of a cult mysteriously titled "The Dust Lords." I spent
a week with the twins, working to locate the Dust Lords' base of operations
in that barren area. I believe I was some help and I found the work fascinating.
Regrettably, I was out of my depth. When it seemed that confrontation
and conflict were near, the Silver Flame twins suggested that we part
ways.
While we were traveling together, I asked them questions about the these
so-called Dust Lords. I did not understand most of their responses,
which told of epic battles between Eberron's first children, but I found
one description particularly chilling.
Rakshasa: In their natural forms, rakshasas resemble tigers--the
vicious, striped felines that are said to stalk the jungles of Q'barra--given
humanoid form. They might be mistaken for an exotic breed of lycanthrope,
if not for their hands, which seem to have been stitched to their wrists
backwards. They are, in fact, demons who were born at the dawn of Eberron.
Before our age, they fought the couatl, noble feathered serpents, to the
brink of mutual extinction. Now the rakshasas as a race are believed to
be trapped beneath the Demon Wastes.
Rakshasas
are gifted shapeshifters with a penchant for deception. Indeed, rakshasa
masterminds may still secretly manipulate certain humans and humanoids.
Some cults and conspiracies, such as the Dust Lords, are said to possess
rakshasa agents. The Church of the Silver Flame zealously investigates
any such rumors, striving to ensure that an alliance of fiends never gathers
the strength to reclaim this world.
I may someday visit Flamekeep to seek news of the twins, but for now I've
had enough of mysterious dangers and legendary monsters. As of today,
I'm changing my course to head for Breland.
Today, following a well-traveled road to Sharn, I crossed paths with a nomadic warforged merchant. It's strange to see warforged pursuing more mundane careers in the wake of the Last War. Growing up in Korth, I saw them rarely, and always as soldiers or bodyguards.
Warforged: During the century-spanning Last War, wizards and artificers became experts in the creation of lifelike beings, from the simplest animated swords and homunculi to powerful steel golems. Thirty years before the Last War's end, something happened. Artificial creatures were born who actually inherited the spark of life. While these beings were made of wood and metal, they had minds and souls like any sentient race of Eberron.
The warforged were created to fight other being's battles, and few have survived to learn another kind of life. They are a diverse species, with bodies that are literally built to fulfill a role such as warrior or spy. Older warforged are more likely to be simple soldiers, but new models are more complex ...and intelligent enough to wield magic as ably as the common races. They need neither sustenance nor sleep and can be healed by any skilled craftsman.
Some warforged make their homes in large cities, seeking employment with and approval from other races. Others resent or fear humanoids, making their homes in the burnt-out shells of ruined cities in the Mournland. Warforged are few in number, and it is uncertain whether their race will continue and thrive in the centuries to come.
Sometimes I wonder if the warforged feel they've lost their purpose since the war ended. I tried to propose this as a question to the merchant, but he took great offense and thereafter refused to do business with me.
In his case, at least, the concept of a predetermined life is distasteful. The warforged are a young race, and I suspect it will be some time before they are regarded as beings rather than weapons.
This is it. Sharn, the city of adventure. After months in the wilderness, it's a real culture shock to experience such a bustling city. The diversity here is incredible. Today I saw a family of halflings who must have been three generations removed from Talenta, strutting across a walkway wearing Breland finery. I saw an Argonessan barbarian in stylized dragon armor keeping company with a warforged who seemed built for speed. With so many travelers from so many lands, this city makes further wanderings around Khorvaire seem redundant.
Sharn: The teeming metropolis of Sharn is known as The City of Towers, so named for flying buttresses and towering buildings that would be impossible without the application of magic. These structures reach toward the sky with an audacity mirrored by its varied inhabitants, people from the four corners of Eberron. These colorful characters range from dragonmarked representatives of merchant houses to the lowliest pickpockets hoping for a place in the city's crime guilds.
While magic is common in most inhabited parts of Khorvaire, Sharn is home to more wonders than practically any other city in the world. Entering Sharn for the first time, one might see harpy messengers flying between buildings, permanent levitating platforms supplanting the need for stairs, or the comings and goings of the famous Lightning Rail.
Many adventurers call Sharn home, for the city itself is home to a wealth of mysteries. While the richest citizens enjoy comfortable lives in the gleaming mansions that crown the city, Sharn's lower levels house many undesirables ...both mundane and supernatural. The original underground city, which serves as the foundation for the generations of newer levels, has been the end of curious travelers who journey there unprepared.
I've been here less than a day, but I feel I could stay here forever. Tonight I'll stay in a cheap boarding house or hostel, and first thing tomorrow I'll find a trader who will pay silver for some of the animal pelts I gathered during my travels. First, though, there's a lovely lass from Lhazaar who's been eyeing me since I walked into this saloon. It's time to make my first friend in the big city.
My first week in Sharn hasn't gone as smoothly as I would have liked. During my second night in the city, a thief broke into my room at the Dragonhawk Inn. She took my longbow, my money and--worst of all--my journal and notes. I spent the entire morning searching the city and found nothing but a sense of the city's overwhelming size.
I wandered into one of the mid-city plazas and spent an hour feeling sorry for myself as I watched citizens pass below. Before long, I noticed someone watching me: a striking Aerenal elf. He introduced himself as Cyndar, an apostle of the Undying Court. I forgot my troubles long enough to inquite about his fascinating religion.
The Undying Court: The Aerenal culture is deeply affected by elves' nigh-immortal lifespans. They revere their ancient elders and have come to rely so completely upon their guidance that they go to dramatic lengths to stay in touch with their ancestors. Necromantic magic has kept these elders from passing into the afterlife, maintaining them in a state of hallowed undeath.
As this Undying Court has aged and grown, it has gained the power to channel divine energy to its followers. Some Aerenal faithful can tap into this source of power, which is said to grant them power over life and death.
While the Aerenal fixation on death seems morbid and alien to most people of Khorvaire, the religion's followers are quite benevolent. Cyndar proved a helpful acquaintance, directing me to a friend of his who works as an inquisitive.
The inquisitive and I tracked the thief to a flophouse in the depths of the city. She was a young shifter, belligerent when captured but quickly yielding. I was able to get my possessions back, including my unique quill. In fact, I used it to draw a quick self-portrait.
...Not a perfect likeness, but it captures a certain air of sophistication and rugged charm. Perhaps it will make a good cover for the journal when it's published.
I'm still short of silver, so tomorrow morning I'll see if I can find work at a local guild hall. Let's hope my next week is less eventful than the last.
I have rediscovered a passion for magic. A fortnight ago, I was running out of money and desperate enough to make use of my training as a magewright. As much as I dislike the idea of a steady job safe behind city walls, I've always had a natural talent for wizardry. In the past few days, I have rediscovered the thrill of learning and casting new spells.
My employer, a kalashtar conjurer named Binvahari, has hired me to research spells created and forgotten during the Last War. Most of this work involves transcribing scrolls, copying incantations and formulas from crumbling originals to a comprehensive tome. The spells are primarily cantrips and minor charms, but occasionally I discover something beyond my expertise. Binvahari seems to take particular interest when these spells involve contact with other planes of existence.
While this work keeps me from my travels, it supplies plenty of material for my cyclopedia. This morning, I overheard a discussion between my employer and the freelancer who supplies him with materials I transcribe. They spoke of horrors that haunt the Mournland -- the place these scrolls were discovered.
Living Spells: During the Last War, wizards were tasked to cast ever more powerful spells. This race to harness arcane destructive power consumed the mages who served King Jarot's sons, and some flirted with catastrophe in their research.
The cause of the Mourning is shrouded in mystery, but one phenomenon closely associated with this cataclysm was the creation of living spells. Ripping loose of the mortal wills who attempted to harness them, these powerful magics were tranformed into monstrous expressions of the spells originally intended by their creators.
Living spells scoured the Mournland like hungry beasts. Some were dangerous but quickly put down. Others, like the infamous Living Blasphemy, leave the ground blackened and stripped of life wherever they pass. These arcane monsters are the end of nearly any traveler who would dare to explore the Mournland. Only a few seasoned adventurers have survived encounters with living spells, and even these stout souls are said to endure nightmares for years afterward.
If nothing else, this job has taught me enough about the Mournland to fill a chapter in my journal. I'm thankful for that, because I doubt I'll ever muster the courage to experience that place firsthand.
Working for Binvahari has been rewarding, and Sharn is worth every superlative launched in its direction, but I'm starting to feel that I have spent too long in one place. Last night, I was approached by an ashen-skinned, silver-haired half-elf named Ruary De'iyrn. She somehow knew that I have studied certain spells that can assist in the location and identification of enchanted artifacts.
Ruary asked if I would be willing to join an expedition to Xen'drik being mounted by the Wayfinder Foundation. She explained that they needed the help of an arcanist who could take care of himself on the road. She said this with an air of menace that stood out even against her generally imposing demeanor.
Without a moment's hesitation, I said yes.
The dangers of this voyage did not take long to reveal themselves.
Our small caravan had barely reached the borders of Zilargo when we were attacked by a phalanx of heavily armed Darguun hobgoblins. It wasn't apparent whether their ambush was a planned assignment or tragic chance. Entirely clear, though, was the savagery of their attack. In spite of my best efforts and the deadly accuracy of Ruary's crossbow, we were overwhelmed. By the time they retreated, we were left with less than half our number.
Darguun: Before humans colonized Khorvaire, the goblin empire of Dhakaan spanned much of the continent. Over the centuries, the goblinoids' numbers occasionally dwindled during violent clashes with other races, but it wasn't until the cataclysmic Xoriat incursion that their civilization truly began its decline. Darguun sees itself as the last bastion of that civilization, and it bears a deep-seated grudge against the kingdoms that have displaced it.
During the Last War, hobgoblin mercenaries lent their considerable martial skills to the prince with the deepest pockets and sweetest promises. Before the end of the Last War, these mercenaries consolidated their power in the new nation of Darguun. Though Darguun lacks much of the discipline of Dhakaan, goblins consider their new nation a chance to return to their former glory. The nation is most notorious for the overt power of their hobgoblin soldiers, but there are rumored to be other, more subtle factions within Darguun.
In spite of the attack, we are pressing on, picking up the last member of our party, a scholar from Korranberg named Simble. The gnome, an expert on the early history of Khorvaire, explained to me that the artifact we seek is a scepter that belonged to one of the first kings of old Galifar. How it ended up in Xen'drik is unknown. I think we can assume, though, that we are not the only people who would like to find it.
I am writing this entry, the first I've made during several harrowing weeks, as I huddle by a fire that Ruary and I have built atop an ancient Xen'drik temple. We are the last surviving members of our expedition, and we dare not go underground again.
The deaths of our companions, which began during our Zilargo detour, continued at every leg of our trip. In Stormreach, an assassin wearing a light gray cloak poisoned two of our Deneith mercenaries. Forced to leave early, we were unprepared for the ferocity of the local wildlife. Another of our guides fell in a failed attempt to deter a horse-sized spider. When we finally reached the ruins that Simble had traced as the likely location of the scepter, we foolishly thought that we'd be safer inside than we'd been in the wilderness.
To spare my readers the grisly details, our four remaining guards were slain by a set of ebon-skinned elves who appeared as if from the shadows themselves. They took Simble captive, and we can only assume he died slowly and painfully at their hands. I'm ashamed to say I was useless in that battle, as my longbow never found its mark. The only reason Ruary and I survived is because I used a desperate incantation to show us the safest path away from the ruins.
When the sun rises, Ruary and I will make our way back to Khorvaire, avoiding Stormreach. Ruary will head to Sharn to explain the failure of the mission, while I travel back to Korranberg to notify Simble's next of kin ...and search the Library for information on how to defeat the shadow-dwelling elves that killed him.
