This journal is an adaptation of the events in a recent DnD 5e campaign written from the perspective of the character I played. I hope you'll enjoy reading it because I had lots of fun reminiscing about it.
The following will be a record of my exploits in the abyss, a massive multi-tiered chasm on the island of Abyssal Reef. I have come to find and hunt whatever beasts may make the dark depths their home. These are the first records I've kept of myself,so an introduction to who I am is in order.
My name is Haren Smolder, a wood elf from a well hidden forest tucked away in an unimportant corner of the world. I am 162 years old, a fact I'm still wrestling with. In my childhood I often went out of my way to speak to anyone who wasn't an elf. My mother scolded me for it but my father kept her at bay, insisting that it was a youthful naivete I would grow out of. Growing older I learned to fight, to move quickly through the trees and strike with deadly grace. My bow and I slew many an animal from great distances. I began to fashion myself after heroic elves I saw in dusty books and heard in stories told by the rare traveler. I stood tall. I placed a quiver and a sword on either hip and slung my bow over my back. I wore greens and brown even though I much prefer reds and blues. I'm sure it'd embarrassed many of my neighbors but it was how I felt I should be. I won't apologize for that.
On the night of my 160th birthday I had been reading over a human book about a long fought war from long ago against orcish invaders. It made me feel dumb. It made me feel small. The humans who I'd loved talking to so much seemed far more like the elves I lived with, and the orcs seemed like the humans I'd met. So much haughty praise was heaped on the humans, their prowess in combat and superiority in all things. The orcs were nothing more than an enemy for the humans to defeat and dominate. The war had lasted for over one hundred years. Entire generations had been born and died without knowing a world where this war wasn't raging. If the humans were so much stronger, why did it take so long? It reeked of falsehoods and bigotry. I couldn't bear reading it any more.
My father came to invite me to my own party. After some arguing I joined the family and their friends. The entire time conversation seemed to focus on other races. Had they not heard of my accomplished archery? Did they not see the entire roasted boar sitting on the table that I had hunted down? They complimented my mother's cooking of it, they must have known. For what seemed like forever my blood boiled in my veins. If this celebration of my birth could dance around me so well then it didn't need me to be there. I had walked out of my own party and back to my room. I'd adorned it with the heads of my most challenging quarries. I gathered my equipment and ensured I looked just as I should. My mother watched from the doorway shouting profanities and threatening to hex me for the shame I'd made her feel. “For the next three hundred years you'll regret acting so foolishly!” she said. I pushed past her and made for the surrounding forest.
Before I could leave my mother did curse me. She planted my feet in the earth and fetched my father. He must have been as fed up with me as I was with him, I suppose I'd gotten it from him. His normally calmer chastising was unabashedly rage filled. The humans know not what they do and they are naive like children. The dwarves are clumsy and stupid. The halflings are vagabonds and gypsies not to be trusted. Orcs are a barbaric slaughtering scourge. Elves were the only ones who could know what was right and what was wrong. We were the only people in the world who lived long enough to learn to not care about what we had in life but care about what we left in death.
Once he had finished my mother allowed me to move. She issued an ultimatum. Either I would stay with them and grow up, or I would not be welcome in her home. Well seeing as I'm writing this and you're reading it we can agree my choice was obvious. My father wasn't wrong about the value of one's life lying in what they are thought of after they're dead though. I had felt the same way for years before. It was what drove me to hunt down great animals, what made me perfect my aim, it was why I lived. They didn't see it though. That was how I left my family.
Wandering out of the woods that night was the best decision I'd ever made. I had no coin, no food, and no regrets. I had escaped. I had the freedom to go where I pleased. Freedom from those towering oaks like bars on a cage. Freedom from the expectations of my parents. I walked many paths and met a few people who stared long at me. They asked me why I had left my home, they seemed to think that something horrible had happened that drove me out. While I was with them I felt more at home than I had in my entire life. I bounced from one place to another, living off of the generosity of others, until I came upon my greatest challenge yet.
I had found what seemed to be a den large enough for me to walk about inside of. Bedding like piles of leaves and branches with small tufts of fur and feather stuck to them. Clawed tracks the size of my hands came and went, the freshest of which I followed. Stepping out from a treeline I spied a commotion in a farmer's field. A bear was stomping over young crops ruining them. A rampaging pest like this was a win win for me, I can help someone and I could kill a challenging target. With a little magical chant I was off fast as the wind.
I stopped on a hill about 300 feet away. The air felt still and I was confident my skills were enough to lodge an arrow in the bear's leg. I dew my bow and flung the arrow with practiced ease. I hit my mark, and the beast let out a roar I wasn't expecting. It was shrill like an eagle diving on its prey. It turned to look at me and it had the head of a bird. Never had anyone I talked to told a story of a monster like this. To say I panicked wouldn't be entirely accurate, but my next few shots did miss as it charged after me. As it neared my position I chanted again. The next arrow I notched was covered in magical thorny vines. This trick usually works better on smaller animals. A deer would sometimes fall victim to it but not often. I'd never had a chance to try it on a bear.
No matter if it was luck or a testament to my spell casting I was overjoyed that it had worked. The arrow dug in and grew into a twisting tangling mess tripping up the animal. It rolled over and over down the slope screaming all the way. I felt myself snap back to reality. My gambit had bought me enough time to land only two more shots though. The vines snapped and once again I was staring death in the face as it ran head long at me. I ran, and it chased. Thanks to my magic I managed to keep it at a distance where I could shoot an arrow occasionally. Maneuvering, gauging distance, sprinting away, the whole thing was a test of endurance more than a test of my archery.
After many minutes I was nearly exhausted. My arrows were depleted, I could only find a few dug into the ground that weren't snapped. My pursuer's white feathered face was stained a crimson red. Many of my arrows were sticking out of its back and legs. Even as tired as I was I think it was more tired. I uprooted an arrow, drew my bow, and once again chanted. The arrow's head transformed into a pulsing bramble. I let it loose and it impacted the bird's beak. It exploded into a small shower of thorns, mangling and tearing into the monstrosity's head. Reeling, and letting out one final cry, it died. For a short while I was alone out there in hills. I could hardly stand but I went to work carving a memento from the corpse.
A family of humans came searching for me. They had seen my battle from their cottage. They all congratulated me, promising songs about my heroic deed. It was an incredible feeling that I can't find the words to describe. A party was quickly organized at a roadside inn a mile away. The great and terrible owlbear had been slain. That was what they called it atleast. I gave an older woman the beak I'd taken as a trophy to be turned into a drinking cup. The next day she came to me with a drinking horn made from it. Carved into the tip of the beak was my name. That night we reveled with beer and wine. I had gotten drunk too quickly and much of the night is lost in my mind. They asked my all sorts of questions from who I was to how I was so strong and skilled. I'm sure of one thing though. Before I left to travel on I made the inn keeper promise to keep the beak, and anytime there was a cause for celebration they would drink from it.
Nothing since then has been of much note. I went on hunts, worked for people, competed in competitions many of which I won. I began to feel more sure that leaving was a good thing for me. I met plenty of people that made me smile and a few who made me angry. I know I'll meet many more as the years go on and I find more adventures. Tonight on the ship my mind will swim with possible conversations between me and those new faces. I may hardly be able to fall into a trance! This journal was a good idea too. People will want to hear about what will happen to me.
The picture of the Owlbear is from the forgotten realms wikia. The picture of Haren was drawn by a friend. As I post more of these you'll see more of his art. Please tell me how I did and how you liked it.