A Letter Home

Mother,

I still walk this side of The Wheel, and, in my heart, I know you do, too. I know the Clan thrives in my absence. The land is teeming with life and the signs of your work.

I will arrive at the Place of Giving tonight. I will leave you this letter, a journal of my voyages and discoveries in the North, and the thighbone of one of my fallen enemies. I have decorated the bone with my Diurniad, in keeping with the ways of our people, that you may know I have not forgotten them. By your acceptance of my offering, I will know you have not forgotten me.

I am preoccupied that I have not yet won a trophy worthy of tithing the Clan. My hands are calloused and soaked with blood, but I only win vile artifacts, baubles and trinkets. Did you know my peregrination would last so long when you named me?

The reborn ruin we knew as Phandalin is now called "Tempered Vale." Those that toil in its rebirth, though oblivious of the fact, truly live in a golden age. The leaders are new and inexperienced. They have not had time to lose their way. The land is free and open. Game is plentiful.

Father would call these people weak, and he is not wrong, but they are tenacious. They would remind him of me. They have survived an overrunning goblin horde and they persist, defiant. They are good-meaning people, for now. In time, perhaps, they will disappoint me, but until then I will not turn my back on these free folk. As long as they are willing to fight and die for their freedom, I will fight with them. Still, that freedom hangs by a precious, silken thread.

From the east, Zhentarim gangsters seek to impose their control over the region. They say they are led by the mysterious "Snail." However, this is not the Vale's greatest threat.

In the Wyrmsmoke Mountains, to the southwest, a new goblin force is building, threatening the free people of the Vale and Drellin's Ferry. They encroach to fill the power vacuum that is the hallmark of true freedom.

Hobgoblins are roving in bands. They are well equiped, skilled at battle and some command mystic arts. They walk with unnatural beasts. I reckon they are the tendrils of the main mass, scouting the region and seizing whatever strongholds and waypoints they can to support the march of the horde in a campaign in this direction. I have met them in combat and they are worthy.

They bear symbols of Tiamat. If they are in her wretched service, their aim will be more than murder and plunder. I am certain that Drellin's Ferry and Tempered Vale are small and unworthy targets of a force like this. Those places will be obliterated under their feet and they will surely not stop there.

Know that my Diurniad is reaped from one of their number. If you wish it, Goldemerionne might scry some insights from it.

One of them, Wyrmlord Koth, is so brazen that he holds the dilapidated Wraath Keep without a lookout or patrol. We encountered him in a bid to reconnoiter the keep for Alumae of Drellin's Ferry. I challenged him to combat but he failed to meet me in the field and instead goaded me to meet him in the keep, in reach of his treacherous crew. How I burned to take him in the jaws of his own trap! It was my companions who reminded me that, in his bravado, he revealed himself to us and our work was now elsewhere. We returned to Drellin's Ferry to report their numbers and position.

I struggled with that choice, the missed chance for glory in the sight of our ancestors. I remember, now, Mother, your parable of the mongoose and the cobra.

The cobra stands guard in its coil,
dancing and flaring its hood.
In the moment it strikes it is open
and the mongoose will spill out its blood.

As a token of appreciation for service to the people of Drellin's Ferry, I have been gifted a shield of outstanding quality. It is adorned with an unmarred silver relief of three bears marching about the boss. When I slipped my hand through the enarmes, they took hold of me, firmly, as if alive. I have taken this to be a powerful omen.

I have fought with the glaive for so long, following the teachings of my father, striving to perfect the eagle forms. I believe I am the equal of my brothers in this. But now, this shield, bearing the image of your totem, has taken my hand. I interpret this omen to mean I must refocus on the lessons you taught me so long ago, to honour those forms; the withdrawn paw, the claw strike, the rending maw. I feel the Turning of The Wheel guiding my course, and I obey.

Do not tell Father or my brothers that I have allied with lowly townsfolk if you think it will distract them too greatly from important matters, but I am unashamed. Either way, you, he and the other Elders should know of the threat that looms here and hovers even over the dominion of our Clan.

May the Turning favour your glory. Please tell my sister I journey on and think of her often.

Your mongoose,

Peregrine.