House Azaer Log - PFC Dirge Reports

Entry 1
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Captain Zina recommended me to the Temple of Avandra’s job squad. Great. Remind me to thank her so much when I come back. I’d had a difficult day as it was, trying to teach the new recruits the means of disarming an enemy by use of the flat of one’s blade. But could I stop and have a drink at the tavern, quietly?

No, of course not. I had to stop some of the more drunken farmers’ sons to leave off of this scrawny-looking human who, as it turns out, is a flame wizard. The fact that I have reason to believe that his powers come not from eldritch compacts, but rather from excessive alcohol vapors exuding from his pickled pores, hasn’t gone past my notice. I don’t believe I made a mistake in doing so. Yet. At least the bartender may provide me with an ale or two in compensation later.

Then, I have to drag said human to meet with Lady “I’m so holy I can piss puppies and shit sunlight” to find out she wants us to hunt down rogue cattle. I’m a cowpie wrangler, with a Dragonborn paladin with an alternately hilarious and ridiculous sense of humor, and another human who seems to have just found the exit from the rock next to Avandra’s church that he’s lived under. He’s beyond bumpkin.

And, of course, what happens when we go looking for said cattle? We get attacked. We’re warned of the attack by an Elf forestman’s yell. It’s the last thing he does that’s of assistance to us. The Dragonborn seems useful, and actually understands battle tactics. A stirge decided to make a snack of the wizard for a while before deciding that I looked tasty. Two kobolds kept the arrow-shooting pointear busy, and a couple of fire beetles decided to blacken a number of us before we were done with them.

All that, and we get gold. I’m thrilled. I’d rather have had extra pints of ale.

Entry 2
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I loathe humans.

Really, I do. They’re tiresome, shifty, and engage in pointless rituals of propriety and humility before telling half-truths to get other humans to do their bidding. Plus, they do not understand their place in the pecking order when doing a job.

The wizard? Wants to get drunk on bad wine. The elf? Tries to act as though he’s a reborn king, and very well may be in one of his personalities. (Not to mention, how did he join the party? I swear, I expected him to shoot an arrow into his own foot, and he gets to be part of the club? I’ve seen recruits with better skills!) The Dragonborn had to take care of business in the temple, but was replaced by another Dragonborn worshipper of some god or goddess. I have no clue with these holy warriors. It’s all mystery to me.

And yet, when prompted to speak with a shifty human who seems to talk out of every orifice in his face, who leads the bargaining? The militia-trained war tactician, who knows his way around town and knows with whom to speak to get further information? No… it’s the bumpkin and Wizard Pickledliver. And, on top of all of this, a halfling with a penchant for nabbing things joins us. This is an embarassing-looking crew right now.

Our fighting needed work. We need to learn to work together. I also need to take some basic weapons courses with Weaponmistress Thalise. Try as I might, I could not solve the problems I was facing, and nearly became demon-spawn jerky for a group of hungry wolves. Not quite as bad as a couple of the others, but not well by any means. Fortunately, the wizard and the pickpocket proved to be quite useful in routing the wolves. It’s a good thing, too. I’m on my watch, and I can only hope that everyone will stay asleep while I write. I have no need for further melodrama from any of the others. Peace, quiet, and my journal. That’s all I need right now.