This is the character journal of my character Aeona Tycheweaver.

We’ve just begun the campaign. There was a little bit of time sorting out characters, starting money, initial story and what rules are available.

Master alchemist Vick¹ now of the Mwangi Expanse once said of potions:

The secret to the science of metamagical thixatropic elixirs - potion-brewing for the trite - is choice. Start with the purest of waters, bring in a few measured, well-known reagents, a dash of your standard bases, a few scratches of impurity for things to bond around… and then a healthy dose of entropy with a good shake or application of fire.

Yesterday Last month Tomorrow Before when Mother and Father met their undoing, I experienced an amazing sense of blindness and seeing all at once. It was beautiful - all the planes, everywhere at once, and forever, in a stopped instant. It was² something pure. Over “time” I’ve adopted it. Brought it in. Controlled it. To an extent. With just my will I have placed my hand over a gushing stab wound, and linked it elsewhere. Another time, another universe. The blood flows back up, flesh sews together. It’s taxing but I’m becoming addicted to this purity loaned by It³.

Following - is that the right word? - the images of my previous journal, I left home. Or what remained of it. As my sister Viktoriya spins it, I had found her near the family castle, and told her we had to travel for reasons I couldn’t explain. That’s a lie. She’s actually my half-sister. I think. Father’s family tree had some peculiar growths on it, and there was a time before Mother that he didn’t speak of. Yet we are kindred. I’m pretty sure I’m the bigger sister, but Vik will never clarify that for me. Nevertheless she is a Tycheweaver, touched by magic. Although hers seems to be with dirty hands. I should have asked about that. Maybe I have.

At some point we existed in Sandpoint at a ceremony for the temple that had burnt down 3 years before that. We had nothing to do with the temple’s conflagration. I think. I was (still am!) trying to draw the thread from my vision to this place. Butchered souls. I mean, they were celebrating, drinking deep. And then the goblins came.

Dirty, impure little imps. Slicing dogs and biting hands. Burning houses for nothing. My pulse shot up. Time slipped around me like eddies and I got confused. It was like a dream where I was speaking clear common. I said: “Qua aeste falanir mie hoilan” but the townsfolk regarded me as insane. Sister Vik helped, though. Little sister protecting big sister (note to self: she’s the big sister, right?) though unlike most, she used a cestus. I defended against a goblin by reaching behind his timeline and showing his demise - an ironic twist as the blood drained from his face as a cunning gypsy man drained it from his kidneys. The goblin did not appreciate the irony.

When time unbecame quicksilver, we had rescued some young noble from a pack of goblins. I remember in disjointed order: puncturing a skull with my sling; a dwarf ranger stepping backwards, catching arrows in his shortbow and stowing them away; the gypsy man advancing; drenching a house on fire. Catalytic indeed.

Amidst all the violence and celebrations and skeletons⁴ and hunting boar with nobles⁵, I’m positive that we have settled in Sandpoint. I need some time to recalibrate myself. Settle. Precipitate maybe.

Nevertheless, it appears as though we have a fine potion on our hands…