It has been months since my last entry. I need to get these words on paper to get them out of my head. The task ahead is too grave to entertain distractions. Yet, despair seems to be around every corner, if not my ever present circumstance.
My people are dead. The only vestige of my fellows were a figment, a shadow born of vile magic set to allow the perverse study of the moment of their slaughter and the death of an age.
My current companions vacillate between either not caring about my claims or openly mocking me. The people of Golarion have truly forgotten the legacy that bore them. An echo of their forebears stands before them and what does it gain them? Nothing. To them I’m merely an encyclopedia. Any decent library could fill my place among their number. I doubt they would remember me in a month should I disappear in the night.
It’s not for my own importance that this increases my sorrows. The memory of events that still feel like fresh experiences are the dusty, half rotted entries in tomes that today’s scholars are either too dull to recognize or probably lost still in some “ancient” chamber yearning to be uncovered. I still remember the Golden City, the way the light of dawn would reflect off its dome. If the god of civilization, Abadar himself, would see fit to gift the Azlanti with the perfect city, peoples of today would do well to follow their example.
Not all is hopeless. These memories are my refuge, my guiding truth. I would be lying to myself though if I didn’t admit the time spent in this modern era is quickly wearing me down. It used to be I would wield powers that would make mortal men tremble. I’ve consorted with beings that were ancient when Azlant was young. Now I’m laid low in this Chelish body. There is no language in all the planes to express the humiliation, the torture of my daily existence.
I do wonder how the glimmer of Pellius is doing. I recognize this body is not my own. If I could, I would restore my own and then restore him. I did not expect this would happen yet here we are. I refuse to let him die. That would be the gravest of insults and the deepest personal failure I can imagine.
So, to see one member of my group openly proclaim to be on their way to lichdom as if they have no say in the matter. Then, to have another ensnared by the Great Old Ones. Another had someone very dear to them slaughtered by a vile fiend. The most sane one of them just might be the psychopath. Perish the thought! Perhaps I should let the world burn once more. Perhaps one more cleanse would give a chance for a proper start. What’s worse is that I could let the cleansing flame envelop the world by simply doing nothing.
These “drow” are in league with the alghollthus. Whether they realize it or not, they are merely puppets. Surely, a veiled master is at play. It is only a matter of time before they bring down another rock. Only this time there won’t be gods lining up to the slaughter to save this pathetic planet. That’s not to say I despise Golarion. No, I love her dearly. Rather, she has a disease. I wonder the tonic that will help her break free of her curse: the curse of those evil snakes. I can’t even warn my companions lest one of them be under their control or they speak out of turn around one of their agents.
I could do nothing. It would be so easy.