Ignius/Journals
Contents
2025
8th of February
- The Kingdom of the Wetlands (Reign 58), The Shire of Mordengaard
A decade has passed since last I walked the lands of Amtgard, and though the world has turned, the weight of time has only deepened the call to return. Today, I set foot in the Shire of Mordengaard, a place both unfamiliar and yet strangely welcoming. The banners still fluttered in the wind, the clang of steel upon steel rang across the fields, and the voices of warriors, old and new, reminded me that though much has changed, some things remain eternal.
The purpose of my journey was made clear upon arrival. A vision led me here, guiding my steps to where Sir Caim Bloodwyrm lay in the grasp of death’s permanence. With the final charge of the Dagger of Time, I did what I must. The magic was ancient, its power fleeting, but as the energy coursed through my hands and into his fallen form, I knew that Tharos had willed this moment into being. His breath returned, his eyes opened, and though the dagger now rests powerless, its purpose was fulfilled.
There was little time to reflect, for the battlefield called. The clash of war beckoned, and I answered. My blade found its mark, my spells wove destruction and protection alike, and though my strength is not yet what it once was, I stood among warriors once more. It was in the heat of battle that I felt truly alive again, the echoes of past glories mingling with the promise of new ones to come.
Mordengaard has welcomed me, and I will not take that lightly. There is more to do, more to learn, and perhaps even greater works to achieve. For now, I rest, but the fire within me has been rekindled.
A Letter to Mordengaard
I stand before you as a humble traveler who has found himself upon your shores, called here by fate and guided by vision. My name is Ignius, once a magus of great renown in distant lands, now but a student once more, seeking to earn his place among you.
Many realms have I walked, across landscapes both wondrous and treacherous. I have gazed upon the shifting sands of time itself, held the line against overwhelming darkness, and through fortune alone, tamed a dragon with nothing more than a humble bowl of turtle soup. I have known triumph and loss, and through each victory and failure, I have sought the wisdom to carry forward. Yet even the most storied of journeys may find themselves at their origin once again, and so I come to you—humbled, yet resolute.
It was Tharos, the Black Lion, whose voice reached out to me in a dream upon my arrival in the Shire of Mordengaard. In this vision, I was shown a place where a great warrior lay in eternal slumber, beyond the reach of time itself. Guided by the will of my god, I followed the path laid before me, and there found the resting form of Lord Caim Bloodwyrm. With the last spark of magic left within the Dagger of Time, I placed my faith in my vision and returned him to the living. Though the dagger’s power is now spent, the act it allowed me to fulfill will forever remain in my heart.
Now, I seek a place among you, to share in the glories and burdens of Mordengaard, to offer what wisdom and aid I may, and to learn from those whose strengths I have yet to witness. I know that trust is not given lightly, nor should it be, and so I will earn it in deed, in service, and in unwavering loyalty to those who stand beside me.
To the warriors who keep this land safe, I offer my magic to reinforce your steel. To the scholars who study the unknown, I lend my insight where it may serve. And to all who call Mordengaard home, I extend my hand in camaraderie, for a place of honor is not claimed by words but by the actions that forge them.
May the Black Lion’s gaze be upon us all, and may Mordengaard prosper.
Ignius.9th of February
- The Kingdom of the Wetlands (Reign 58), The Shire of Ironwood
My travels have taken me to the Shire of Ironwood, a place of quiet strength nestled amidst the wilds. The roads here are winding, the trees standing like ancient sentinels, watching as time moves ever onward. Though my stay was brief, it was marked by a meeting of great significance.
I encountered a traveler named Aubrey—one unlike any I have met in many moons. Like me, Aubrey possesses the rare ability to traverse the nether between realms. It is not often that one encounters another who understands the weight of such journeys, the knowledge of worlds beyond this one. Our conversation was brief, but in those few words exchanged, I felt a kinship unlike any before. There is power in knowing that one is not alone in the vast tapestry of existence.
10th of February
The road carried me beyond the Wetlands and into the towering domain of the Iron Mountains, a land as unyielding as its name. Here, wisdom is as valued as steel, and the scholars of this empire gather in pursuit of knowledge that shapes both mind and might.
I found myself among these learned individuals, attending an academic course where ideas flowed like a river cutting through stone. Their discussions were rigorous, their understanding deep, and though my path has been forged through battle and magic, I know well that wisdom is a weapon all its own. To wield knowledge is to shape the world without drawing a blade.
I spent some time contemplating Tharos and his wisdom. I am reminded of one of his legends, "Trial of the Black Lion".
On the eve of battle, Adrastos climbed the cliffs above the camp and called out into the night. "Gods, I call to you! Give me the strength of Poseidon's waves or the might of Ares' fury to defeat my enemies!"
The gods did not respond.
"Gods, I beseech you," Adrastos called again. "Give me gifts of Hephaestus: a shield to repel the mightiest attack, or a sword that cuts with the sharpness of Zeus' lightning bolt!"
The gods did not respond.
"Gods, I beg you," Adrastos said, his voice faltering. He looked down at the camp of his brethren and out at his own village far behind him on the horizon. "Give me anything at all that I might keep my fellow Spartans alive, and save my home from burning." He paused, and then, under his breath, he whispered: "And if not even that, then I ask only that you show me how a man may face death and not falter."
The wind howled in answer, carrying a deep, rolling roar from beyond the veil of the world. The sky darkened, the stars winking out one by one, until only a great blackness stretched before him. And from that darkness, Tharos emerged—not in flesh, but as a shadow of the Nemean Lion who walked with his enemies. Tharos towered, vast and terrible, with eyes like embers in a dying fire.
Adrastos fell to one knee, but before his head could bow, the Black Lion lunged, its fangs stopping just short of his throat. A voice, like distant thunder, rumbled through his bones: Stand, warrior. Kneel, and the Nemean Lion shall claim your head.
Trembling, Adrastos rose. "I am but a man," he whispered. "How can I stand before the storm? How does one fight what cannot be killed?"
The Black Lion circled him, its shadow stretching long in the moonlight. A blade alone does not win battles. A shield alone does not hold the line. Strength is not the body, nor the spear, nor the armor upon your back. Strength is the fire within, the will that does not bend, the shadow that does not flee the sun.
As the lion spoke, the battlefield spread before Adrastos, not as it was, but as it would be. He saw his comrades standing shoulder to shoulder, their shields locked as one unbroken wall. He saw fear in their eyes, but also resolve. And he saw himself among them—not invincible, not untouchable, but unwavering.
The Nemean Lion is might, but I am its shadow. I do not rend flesh, nor break bones, nor shield you from harm. I show the path. And that path leads forward. Always forward.
The vision faded, and Adrastos found himself alone upon the cliff, his heart steady, his fear silenced. When dawn came, he took his place at the front of the Spartan line, his shield raised, his spear steady. And when the enemy charged, he did not falter. For he had seen the path of the Black Lion, and he knew that strength was not in never falling—but in rising again, unbowed.
History does not say what became of Adrastos. Some say he fell in the first charge, his body unyielding even in death. Others claim he fought until nightfall, his shield shattered, his breath ragged, yet still on his feet. And a few whisper that after the battle, he walked alone into the mountains, never seen again, but his name carried in the breath of warriors who stood unbroken before the enemy.
And so, before battle, warriors call upon Tharos, the Black Lion. Not for protection. Not for mercy. But to remember that strength is not in the body, nor in the blade, but in the fire that will not be extinguished. The shadow that will not flee.
And that to kneel is to die before the first strike is even cast.13th of February
- The Kingdom of the Wetlands (Reign 58), The Shire of Wyvern’s Keep
Wyvern’s Keep stands as a bastion of trade and arcane practice, a place where the hum of commerce mingles with the whispers of magic. Here, amidst the bustling market stalls and the scent of parchment and alchemical ingredients, I sought the tools to further my craft.
My journey led me to skilled merchants and enchanters who spoke in the language of rare components and delicate balances. Gold and barter secured what I required—powdered gemstones, vials of distilled essence, herbs plucked under the right phase of the moon. Each reagent, a key to unlocking unseen forces, each tool, an extension of my will. With time and careful practice, I wove the gathered elements into something more—magic refined through purpose and patience. The old ways remind us that power is not taken; it is earned through knwoledge and tempered by discipline. As the final mixture settled and the runes cooled, I knew that what was once raw and scattered now held meaning.
Wyvern’s Keep has provided me well. My pack is heavier, and my mind sharper.
15th of February
- The Kingdom of the Wetlands (Reign 58), The Shire of Mordengaard
My journey carried me back to Mordengaard, though fate had more in store for me than mere return. Along the winding path, I came upon a field unlike any I had seen before—a place where the air felt thick with unseen presence, where the earth itself hummed with something ancient. It was a field of souls, a liminal place between life and the underworld. There, during the ensuing figh, I found it—a powerful soul, its essence pulsing with a strength beyond the others. It called to me, though whether in desperation or defiance, I could not yet tell. I knew such a thing could not be left adrift, yet the question remained—what was to be done with it?
The answer did not come easily. Upon my return to Mordengaard, I found myself at odds with its Sheriff, Acheron, who to my surprise, serves Persephone. The weight of the underworld lay upon their words, and they spoke of balance, of duty to the cycle of life and death. I argued for purpose—if such power could be harnessed, why let it slip back into the shadows? But the Sheriff's conviction was unwavering, as was mine.
In the end, wisdom found us both. Though reluctant, I conceded to their demand, and together, we agreed to return it to the underworld, where it would find its destined place beyond mortal reach. Perhaps it was the right decision. Perhaps it was only the easiest. Only time will tell.
Before the night ended, I was honored among my peers. I received my first Order of the Owl, a recognition of knowledge and skill in my craft, and my first Order of the Rose, an acknowledgment of service. Though I did not seek these accolades, I accept them with gratitude, a reminder that every step in this journey leaves its mark.
16th of February
- The Kingdom of the Wetlands (Reign 58), The Duchy of Granite Spyre
The road carried me to the Duchy of Granite Spyre, a place where the arcane winds flow thick and knowledge is valued as highly as steel. The air itself seemed to hum with latent energy, and I knew my journey here would not be in vain.
It was in this place that I crossed paths with a master of the craft—Art Von Fibonacci, a Paragon Wizard whose name is spoken with reverence among those who weave the arcane. His presence was like standing before a storm held in check, a mind honed by years of study and practice. From him, I learned—new incantations, deeper insights, the delicate intricacies of magic that I had yet to master. Every moment spent in his tutelage was a reminder that true mastery is never complete; there is always more to know.
I also encountered a young Wizard known as Godkiller, one just beginning to walk the path I have long tread. There is something humbling in witnessing the first steps of another, a reminder of the excitement and uncertainty that comes with wielding magic for the first time. That evening, we gathered in ceremony, a solemn yet joyful occasion as Godkiller received his first spellball. A symbol of potential, of the endless road ahead. I watched as he held it in his hands, the same hands that would one day shape the arcane as he saw fit.
17th of February
I returned to the Iron Mountains and their scholars. There, in discussion of the divine, I recalled another tale of Tharos, called the Parable of the Lost Traveler.
That night, beneath a sky of endless stars, the traveler cried out in frustration. "Tharos, I am lost! Show me the way, for I cannot see where my feet should tread."
From the distant mountains, a deep, rumbling roar echoed across the valley, shaking the air like the breath of a storm. Though there were no words, the traveler understood. They must climb higher to see clearly.
The traveler obeyed, though the climb was treacherous. Jagged rocks bit into their hands, and the cold wind howled against them. Each step demanded more effort than the last, and doubt whispered that they should turn back. But they pressed on, remembering the roar that had filled their soul with purpose.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, they reached the summit. Their breath was ragged, their muscles ached, but as they stood upon the peak, their eyes widened in awe. Below, the land spread out before them in all its vastness, and there, in the far distance, a silver ribbon of water shimmered under the moonlight—the river that would lead them to safety.
They realized then that the path had always been there; they had simply been too close to see it. It was not the world that had hidden their way, but their own unwillingness to seek higher ground. The roar of Tharos had not given them an easy answer, but had shown them where to look, teaching them that clarity comes not from pleading for guidance, but from striving for a higher perspective.
With a heart full of gratitude, the traveler turned to begin their descent—but weariness overtook them, and they collapsed to their knees. "Tharos, I am weak! Grant me strength, for I cannot go on."
From the void beyond sight, a distant growl rumbled like distant thunder, shaking loose the heavy silence that had settled upon them. The traveler clutched their pack and felt the weight pressing down—more than cloth and supplies, it was the weight of things unseen.
Curious now, they opened the pack and beheld its contents. Stones, worn smooth from years of being carried, each carved with the echoes of past regrets. A shard of glass, catching the moonlight, reflecting the faces of those they had failed. A length of rusted chain, its links tangled with fears unspoken. The burden was not in their body, but in their soul.
With trembling hands, the traveler lifted each item, remembering the moment it had come to rest upon their shoulders. The apology left unsaid. The fear of failing once more. The guilt of past mistakes. And one by one, they placed them upon the earth, watching the shadows swallow them whole.
As the last regret slipped from their grasp, they felt it—the lightness of being unburdened. They stood, their steps surer, their path no longer one of suffering but of purpose. They had thought themselves weak, but they had merely been carrying what no longer needed to be held.
Yet a final question lingered within them. They looked to the stars and whispered, "Tharos, I have done as I was taught, and yet I do not know if my choices are just. How do I walk the path of righteousness?"
The night held its breath, and then, from the shadows cast by the trees, a sound rose—not a roar of command, nor a whisper of comfort, but a low, steady growl, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
The traveler looked down and saw their own shadow, long and dark beneath the silver glow of the moon. They stepped forward, and the shadow stretched and moved, ever following. They turned, and it shifted with them. No matter where they walked, it remained beside them.
Understanding dawned like the first rays of the sun. There was no path marked upon the earth, no scripture etched in stone to show them the way. Righteousness was not a road laid out before them, but the choices they made with each step.
The shadow was a guide. A reminder. Walk with courage, and the shadow follows without doubt. Walk with deception, and it warps and twists. To walk rightly was not to follow signs but to walk in a way where the shadow always aligned with the light.
With this wisdom in their heart, the traveler walked onward, no longer seeking a map, but instead, trusting the path they made with each step.
And so, the traveler, no longer lost, no longer afraid, continued their journey with renewed purpose. For they had heard the Black Lion’s wisdom, and with it, they had found their way.22nd of February
- The Kingdom of the Wetlands (Reign 58), The Shire of Mordengaard
Fate is a merciless guide, ever leading me into the unknown. Today, it carried me and my comrades beyond the realm of the living, into the very depths of the underworld itself.
Together, warriors and mages from Mordengaard, Ironwood, and Granite Spyre stood as one, our blades and spells bound by purpose. We ventured into the darkness, where the air was thick with the weight of forgotten souls and the whispers of the dead curled around us like unseen tendrils.
It was there that the Chaos Warriors awaited—manifestations of entropy itself: hulking, twisted figures clad in cursed iron, their forms writhing with the unmaking force of their foul domain. They struck without hesitation, and we met them in kind.
The battle was brutal. Our spells burned through the abyss, our blades cut through creatures unworthy of names, but they were endless. No matter how many we felled, more came, drawn by the unraveling of fate itself. We fought until our arms ached, until our magic waned, until the weight of the underworld sought to claim us for its own.
And then, we knew. We could not hold. The soul—the powerful soul we had fought so hard to recover—was slipping beyond our grasp. In the end, there was no choice but to retreat. We cut our way free, escaping back into the realm of the living, battered and wearied. The soul we had sought to safeguard, to protect from misuse, was released into the Ether, beyond our reach.
Yet not all was lost. In the depths of the underworld, amidst the battle’s chaos, I uncovered a relic of great significance—the Bracelet of Solidity, an artifact imbued with the power to resist banishment to the realm of insubstantiality. A treasure of fate, or perhaps of necessity. Only time will reveal its true purpose.
In the aftermath, I encountered Paragon Wizard and Squire Thaco, a Wizard of great renown. He saw something in me that I had not yet fully recognized in myself. In that moment, he took me under his wing, not only as an Apprentice Wizard, but also as a Page, binding me to a path of learning, service, and discipline.
Was it failure? Or was it fate? Even now, I cannot say. The Black Lion teaches that strength is not in victory alone, but in standing when all else has fallen. And so, we live. We endure. Mordengaard still stands, and we will fight again.
23rd of February
- The Kingdom of the Wetlands (Reign 58), The Duchy of Granite Spyre
Granite Spyre called me back to its fields, and I answered. The day was filled with battle, each clash of steel and burst of magic a test of skill and endurance. The land itself seemed to shift and tremble beneath our struggles, but it was not the earth that concerned me most—it was the towering structure that loomed in the distance.
During the fray, I found myself in the shadow of an indestructible tower, an unnatural construct from which magic rained upon the battlefield. I had to move with caution, dodging arcane assaults that cascaded down from above. There was no way to counterattack; the tower stood immune to mortal force. In the chaos, I relied on instinct, on the teachings of Tharos, and on the simple truth that survival is sometimes the only path to victory.
Yet the battles of the day were not solely those fought with steel. A challenge awaited me in another form—El Jefe Mago, a Wizard Luchador of extraordinary presence and confidence, stepped forward and demanded a duel. A Wizard’s duel. I accepted.
The duel was swift, a clash of wit and will, with lightning bolts thrown back and forth. In the end, my magic proved the stronger, and victory was mine. El Jefe Mago vowed vengeance at Midreign.
As the day waned, I reflected upon the battles fought, the lessons learned, and the ever-growing fire within me. Granite Spyre once again tested me, and once again, I emerged stronger.
