Dear Spellbook,

I’m exhausted. It’s nice waking up each morning not feeling like you died, but my muscles are sore from the previous day. I can’t remember the last time I felt sore muscles. Well, I probably could with your help, but you make me relive enough trauma. I’ll have to swing by Levar and see if he can make a batch of something next time I run into town.

Riloth 19th the 36th

After my late night chat with Levar, I woke and walked through the usual routine. At Levar's— after buying my daily dose of medicine—I asked him to brew up some concentrated acid slime and as much brimstone acid as he could. He told me to come back in six hours.

Speaking to him as a near stranger had felt... wrong. Before that last night, it was easy to think of him as some—I know this sounds terrible but—object. I went to him, got what I needed, and left. But now after getting to know him, seeing the polite but distant shopkeeper facade hurt. As if the man I'd briefly come to know had died in the night and been replaced with an imposter.

With some time to kill, I set off to go shopping. My previous today's experiments had shown that I was thinking too narrow-mindedly. I saw a problem and tried to figure out how my magic could solve it. When you have a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail. When you can light things on fire with a thought, you start to look for ways to burn your problems away. But when you find an object that is not flammable, you need to start looking for new tools. A magic hammer would probably have worked really well now that I think of it.

On the topic of killing time, on my walk back to town I had a realization. My frantic urgency was counterproductive. If I did in fact have a limited amount of time before our bond broke, rushing to my death each today as quickly as possible was wasting it. From the rate of decay my bodies displayed in the pocket realm, and from the possibility that someone else may be in these resets with me, I found it highly probable that the reset was not timed to my death. Any moment I'm dead before the reset is a moment wasted I could have put to better use.

Wandering around the wealthier part of town, I allowed my ears to follow the rhythmic tink tink tink sounds of a blacksmith at work; they led me to an open-air smithy near the east exit of the town. The smithy was large for the town's size and boasted three forges. A pair of young boys were at work at two, and an older man was at work at the third. They looked to be related, with their wide frames and hairy... everything. The man was working shirtless with an apron on. He turned as I approached and revealed a long braided beard tucked into his leather apron and an unruly mop of hair. The boys, fully clothed, sported thick beards of their own, made more impressive by the fact they otherwise appeared to be in their early teens. It was a wonder they all hadn’t burst into flames from a stray spark.

Seeing my approach, the elder smith stopped his work and greeted me, “Welcome to my shop, is there something I can help you with?”

Without you at my side, nothing distinguished me from any other passing traveler. Carrying around that fake-spellbook just felt wrong. A constant physical reminder of your absence.“I am looking for a crossbow, a big crossbow... for an experiment.”

His face brightened at my request, “I got just the thing. I bought it off an adventurer and spent some time fixing it up with my boys for fun. It’s just been collecting dust. Come on let—” His answer was cut off by a shout from inside.

“Hilroy! I swear you’d give this smithy away for a sack of dirt if I wasn’t around!” the voice shouted. At the shout, the man flushed, though his smile only grew wider.

In an over-eager tone, he said, “Oh, I mean I have a wonderful ancient artifact I lovingly restored. You are lucky you got here, I just finished it and expect dozens of orders for replicas at any moment. You have the exciting opportunity to purchase the original.” He ended the dry line with a wink.

Following him inside the shop, he led me to a back workroom where a massive crossbow sat amongst other half-finished projects, all covered in dust. The bow was four feet wide and made of the same white iron I found in the dwarven outpost. It had straps attached, so one could carry it on their back while traveling. Hilroy stood behind it, “I don’t understand that woman. Just yesterday she was complaining this contraption was taking up too much space and was bound to kill someone, and now she’s trying to make me play hardball to unload it.”

Hardball is an orcish game where they use a ball chiseled from a block of stone. The goal of the game is to get your ball through the opposing teams’ hoops as many times as you can before the ball becomes completely covered in blood, breaks, or the other teams are incapable of “playing” any further. Those are all the rules. Orcs aren’t big on rules.

“How much does she want for it?” I asked, not feeling the need to cause the man any more marital strife.

Rubbing the back of his head and looking away, he said, “A full gold. She thinks the markings on the side are runes. I told her they were probably just art.”

I looked over the etchings, and they did appear to be runes, I didn’t know what they did, but I recognized some of the patterns from the outpost. The runes were scuffed and completely removed in some areas. Who knew what would happen if they were charged. “Well, I have good news and bad news. They were runes, but now they are ruined.” I laughed, and I’m sure he did too... on the inside.

Ignoring his poor sense of humor, I continued, “I’ll pay you a gold if you throw in the bolts and a quiver."

With a smile, he said, "Wonderful! Of course. If my wife sees you on the way out, do you mind looking like you just experienced a rigorous negotiation and lost?" Maybe his sense of humor was not as deficient as I first thought. He packed it all up, and I told him I'd send someone by later in the day to pick it up.

On the way out, upon seeing his wife—a very small and petite woman—I turned to him and, mustering my best impression of a man who just got swindled, shouted “For a price that outrageous I demand information! Where can I find a tutor for the rapier in this Podunk armpit of a town!?”

Still smiling, Hilroy replied, “Actually, I know just the person. Ren Griffin’s Bane retired here not too long ago. She’s been quite the nuisance. No idea why she retired here, but I think she’s been bored. She lives in the gaudy town house down the road with the minotaur out front. You can't miss it."

I thanked Hilroy and set off to arrange for transportation. Stopping in the Parlor, I asked Simon to do just that and send for a horse and cart to collect my new purchases at the prearranged times. I also put in a request for dinner, this time restricting it to the letter “G.” After all the logistics were settled, I sat in Parlor's dining room to eat the same roasted garlic salad with wild boar tenderloins I'd eaten a dozen times. It wasn't a bad meal, but I'd be sick of anything if I had it a dozen times in a row. That day I even enjoyed it, it had been a while since I'd eaten in the Parlor for lunch.

After my meal, I retrieved my sword from my room and went off to find Ren Griffin's Bane. The name was not one I'd heard, but few adventurers gain renown outside regional fame unless they capture the attention of the bards.

The house was not hard to miss once you started looking for the giant stone minotaur. The building itself was a modest, but well-maintained, townhouse in the wealthy district of town. The stone behemoth sat in the center of the front yard, obscuring the view of the house from the street. It stood with one arm lifted high above its head as if raising a glass for a toast. The other arm looked to have broken off at the elbow. The head was that of an enormous bull, horns spanning almost six feet, and was staring up menacingly at the raised hand. The torso was that of a giant man, and the legs were that of a goat, each cloven hoof dwarfing even the hooves of Roland's friend.

Sorry, Dagmar keeps telling me to stop using the term "dwarfing." He said it's racist and belittles his people. I'm trying... but I did laugh the first time he told me it was belittling. He didn't think it was as funny as it very clearly was.

Walking past the out-of-place statue, I climbed the steps and knocked on the ornately carved door. Waiting for someone to answer, I studied the silver masquerade mask affixed there, the symbol of Tin Lan. Tin Lan is the god of mischief and entertainment, and his followers had adopted a masquerade mask as the symbol of their worship—if their antics could be called worship. He was one of the last gods to ascend in the age of heroes. Tin Lan was a wandering bard, playwright, actor, musician, and—most notably—prankster. Unlike most demigods, which ascended through leadership and renown, it is said that he ascended while running through a crowd from the royal guard and the king himself. The legend goes that Tin Lan had hidden away the king’s bride-to-be on the morning of their wedding and took her place in disguise. He maintained the disguise the whole day of celebration and through the wedding itself, only to reveal himself when the veil was lifted after the ceremony was completed. At which point, he gave the king a vigorous kiss and ran away screaming “Long live the queen!” It is debated whether Tin Lan was actually the Queen by marriage in the minutes before his ascension, but his followers still refer to him as The Queen of Mischief.

I stood there recalling this while waiting and grew impatient. Moving to knock once more I heard a rhythmic tap clack, tap clack steadily growing louder. The door opened to reveal an older, but still beautiful, woman a little shorter than my own six feet, but she herself had only one. Foot that is. She had a peg leg. Her hair had gone entirely gray, and was cut short to just below her neck; just long enough to tie back.

She looked me over with a practiced eye, her hand casually going to the rapier at her side. “Good evening young sir, how may I be of service?” she asked in a friendly tone, as if she was not prepared to skewer me if I made the wrong move.

I returned the greeting, “Hello, my name is Tal, and I am looking for someone to train me in the rapier; I was told you might be able to.” I had decided to stop lying about my name, my mother taught me to keep my Stormcaller disguise ready as second nature, but I’d now died over thirty times, so it was rather low on my list of important things.

Her expression changed from curiosity to shock, “You heard I might be able to help you? Might? Do you know who I am?”

“You are Ren Griffin’s Bane, right?” I asked, uncertain now.

“Yes, you know my name, but do you know who I am?” Seeing my confused look she continued, “I slew the Gorgan’s Minotaur, rid the griffins from Rockside, won the Tournament of Duels five years in a row, and I did half of that before I was made the Chosen of Tin Lan. None of that even touches on my career as an entertainer. So the question is not if I would be able to help you, but whether I’d be willing to.”

Surprised by the sudden change in her demeanor, I struggled for words, “I, uh, well, that is, that is what I meant.” Recovering, I continued, “I was told you were a master in the rapier and that I might be able to convince you to provide me an evening of tutelage.”

A smile spreading across her face, she said, “That's better, maybe if you stumble on your words less, a lesser woman might have believed that recovery. I’m simply giving you a hard time. Time seems to be all I have these days. Aside from wealth, talent, wisdom, decades of experience, and most importantly unparalleled beauty and the Blessings of the gods.” She gestured to me to enter, and I followed her in.

The minotaur outside set expectations of the interior that were not met. The furnishings were nothing extravagant, well-made furniture that was expensive without being ostentatious or gaudy. The walls were a different matter. They were covered with dozens of odd items, which I took to be trophies of her travels. The largest of which was a three-foot section of a stone arm mounted above the mantle.

She led me through the house, walking more gracefully than myself, even with one leg. We stepped out into a backyard that had once been a garden but was now a training yard. The walled yard had a sandpit in the center, and the walls themselves were lined with targets of various sizes and practice dummies.

"So, why are you seeking out my boundless wisdom?" she asked while drawing her sword in the center of the ring. Before I could answer she gestured to the sword at my hip and said, "Draw it. Talk and fight. Learning to multitask is step one. I need to see what you know before I can decide what you must learn."

Drawing my sword in my right hand, I answered, "I seem to be—" she knocked the sword from my grip, and with a needlessly showy display somehow caught my sword with her own. It twirled around her rapier, and she plucked it from the air with her free hand "—finding myself in fights in over my head," I finished.

Looking me up and down once more, she said, "Hmmm, I can see that. But, your instincts are good. You didn't panic when you lost your weapon. Let's try that again."

What followed was an hour of her regaling me of her past exploits while repeatedly disarming me, with intermittent advice on form and movements. After an hour, I was at least able to prevent her from flourishing when she stole my weapon.

"Why do you keep doing that?" She asked, making a hand gesture I often make when casting Arcane Armor in a hurry. I don't need hand gestures to help cast—outside of aiming—but I tend to do them anyway when I'm not focusing. I must have been flinching when her hits were getting close to home.

Playing dumb, I asked, "Doing what?"

"Oh, nevermind. Again," she commanded and we continued.

A few minutes later, after I successfully parried a slash, she sprung back and summoned a Firebolt at my face. Reacting on instinct, I casted Arcane Armor to try to deflect the bolt of flame before it made contact. The Firebolt passed through my barrier unimpeded, continued through my head and out the other side, where it faded out of existence. Before my mind could realize it had been an illusion and not a Firebolt, Ren spoke, “Ha, I thought so. Your accent is strange, but I detected a hint of shipclan in it. That and the instinctive gestures gave you away. I haven’t seen a Stormcaller in some time. Why the disguise? I could have been training you far more efficiently had I known.”

I had a strange accent, or so I had been told. My father’s accent was one I’d never heard from a mouth other than his, my mother’s was that of the shipclans, and mine was some abomination of the two and the accents of our travels. That fact she could pick up shipclan from my speech spoke more to her worldliness than her boasts did. Luckily for me she came to the wrong conclusion.

Going along with her false assumption, I said, “Yeah, what of it? I did not think it relevant for training in the rapier.”

She laughed in my face.

“You didn’t think being able to shoot fire from your hands and deflect sword blows with your mind would be relevant to your combat training?” she asked.

“I... uh, I guess when you put it that way it seems quite silly. Yes, I am a journeyman Stormcaller.” I answered, feeling pretty embarrassed.

“Well then, we are going to need to start all over. First things first, you need to learn to fight left-handed, since you are clearly right-handed, and I assume you use that hand for your spells. Eventually you will want to learn to use both, but for now I expect your combat prowess lies primarily in your magics, so we will want to keep your casting hand free. Show me what you can do.” She explained this all as if she had trained dozens of wizards in the sword. Maybe she had.

What followed was me demonstrating my repertoire of spells and then more sparring, this time left-handed. While she effortlessly batted away my attacks, she now supplemented her critiques with general advice on mixing magic into one's swordsmanship. She demonstrated this by blinding me with a burst of colorful light from her palm and then took advantage of my disorientation to trip me. Not that she couldn't have done that without the light.

The light trick, she explained, worked best against subterranean or nocturnal creatures but worked great on people as well. She seemed to think my greatest assets as a budding swordsman would be Lightning Bolt, Arcane Armor and Blink, but said Gust would be more useful if it had a tighter, more focused effect. I decided to show her that version the next time I came.

After practicing with the Light cantrip for an hour she told me that Lightning Bolt could be used in a similar fashion, to greater effect. She elected not to practice that.

Other advice she gave was to use Blink to appear behind opponents. I couldn't yet change my orientation when Blinking, and as far as she knew I'd never be able to.

The last bit of advice she gave before we had to call it a day was to never practice with Arcane Armor, but to always activate it when in combat. She said, “It’s not like regular armor, which you must train in to grow accustomed to. It's best to live your life like you don’t have it, and then live longer because you do. A little Will saved from a good parry could mean life or death.”

I left her home exhausted from the physical exertion. It had been some time since I’d been this tired and lived to experience it. As I walked out, Ren called out, “Thanks for the distraction, if you ever pass through Crossroads again, swing by, and we can swap adventuring stories. That is if you ever get any of your own.”

That elicited a genuine laugh, and I shouted back, “Ha, I’m sure I’ll be back. Thank you for all the advice. See you soon!”

It took a significant amount of small “w” will to not go straight to the baths. I was no longer afraid of drawing Tilavo’s attention now that I had lost you. Silver linings on a storm cloud of whale excrement.

At the Parlor, Simon was waiting with a cart harnessed to Knotien. Loaded in the cart were my crossbow, five bolts, two gallons of yellow liquid in glass containers, and a small wooden box which I presumed to contain the acid slime concentrate. The sun was starting to set as we left town, so we traveled by Ghost Light. Ravenous from the extended labor of training, I devoured my “G” meal. It consisted of a block of goat cheese, roasted goat, grapes, and ginger bread cake for dessert.

By the time I reached the dead tree it was fully dark. Unloa

Sorry, I had heard something in the tower. It turned out that Dagmar triggered another trap and died. I need to get ready to retrieve him from town. We can pick this up tomorrow.

I’m glad to have you back.