The days following my arrival in Beregost have been filled with equal measures of opportunity and danger.

While exploring the town, I entered a seemingly ordinary house and discovered it was occupied not by people, but by four giant spiders. The creatures struck quickly, their venomous fangs proving far more dangerous than their size suggested. Though the battle was difficult, I emerged victorious. More importantly, I found myself stronger than before. The trials of the road are changing me, whether I wish them to or not.

Not long afterward, I met a woman named Mirianne. She was worried for her husband, who had failed to return from his travels. Fear and uncertainty had already begun to consume her, and I recognized the look in her eyes. It is the same look I have seen in my own reflection since Gorion’s death.

I agreed to help.

My search led me south of Beregost, where I encountered hostile creatures on the road. The battle left me battered and bloodied, but among the aftermath I discovered a letter belonging to a fallen messenger. Carrying it back to Mirianne, I expected the worst.

Instead, I delivered good news.

Her husband was alive and safe.

The relief that washed over her face was reward enough, though she insisted on giving me a ring said to offer protection. Whether its power comes from magic or sentiment, I cannot yet say, but I accepted it gratefully.

The journey was not without cost. My wounds forced me to seek shelter at the Jovial Juggler, where I spent time recovering. I had imagined adventuring as a series of battles and victories. Instead, I am learning that every fight leaves its mark. Steel can be sharpened and armor repaired, but bruises and exhaustion demand patience.

During my travels I encountered a frightened boy who spoke of a cleric named Bassilus. Something about his story troubled me, and I decided to investigate.

What I found was no ordinary servant of the gods.

Bassilus stood surrounded by the dead.

When I approached, he revealed himself to be hostile, commanding undead servants to attack. I fought as best I could, but quickly realized I was outmatched. Pride urged me to stand my ground. Wisdom—rare though it may be for me—suggested otherwise.

I fled.

The retreat likely saved my life.

Bruised, exhausted, and humbled, I returned to Beregost and spent several days recovering from my injuries. It is not an easy thing to admit failure. Yet the lesson is clear enough. The Sword Coast is filled with dangers greater than anything I faced within Candlekeep’s walls.

There will be time enough to settle matters with Bassilus.

For now, survival is victory enough.

— Cail