Guile Journal #6: Trust, Distrust, Mistrust, and Judgement

 Entry #6

I do not see an easy night of sleep in my future, and with much to write I will spend these dark hours putting all to paper. A lot has happened between morning and now, so morning is where I shall begin.
All throughout breakfast Antonio continued avoiding me, putting as much distance between us as possible. If that was all I could contend with it, but he then joined Helen’s table and began to make pleasant conversation with her.

In a show of temper I made a remark, accidentally speaking loud enough that not only did Antonio hear me, but the entire mess hall. It was something about Antonio having “no problem befriending slavers so long as they have a pretty face.” I don’t quite remember the specifics, but it was a comment that I regret in hindsight, though I do not blame myself for not knowing then what I know now.

My behavior toward him remained sour during the ensuing mission. Out of both genuine humor and passive aggression, I dressed Salin up as Antonio while we donned disguises. Salin performed a fantastic imitation, but Antonio's pained reaction greatly dampened the punchline.

Despite the failed attempt at comedy, our assigned task (to create division and mayhem in The Cutlass), was to great success. Salin’s cleverness instantly sent Renthor and Taerl at each-other's throats, while I emphasized Salin’s feigned conviction with false apologies. But though our primary mission went swimmingly, everyone’s luck ran out in the aftermath.

Poor Salin paid for his impressive performance, and was speedily kicked from the bar right after. Antonio was discovered by an old acquaintance named Jasper, a hunter sent by his family to retrieve him. It turns out Antonio is not Antonio, but Phillip! Not some wandering noble, but a prince! And Jasper was no simple bounty hunter, but a wicked, violent fiend, with his attention set on apprehending Nilsa. 

Nilsa… It is astounding that I forgot to mention Nilsa before. I found out yesterday that she is an escaped slave with a great bounty on her head! I could have never guessed such a tragedy by her demeanor, love and kindness always seemed on the forefront of her mind. No more dawdling, I am allerting her of the dangers as soon as possible! I forgot to purchase a box of paper birds in Watershed, but I am certain I can find a vendor here. There is always a great variety of magical items in port towns.

As for my own misfortune, I was approached by none other than Brador. He was displeased to see me, so I sat him down for a drink, and attempted to spin a half-truth to satiate his ire. I claimed that my actions were to learn of Graz’zt’s origins, that my break from the order was only to dispose of him, but his opinion of me remained unchanged.

However, speaking to Brador was not without merit. He brought to my mind an incident that hadn’t crossed my mind in over a decade: The Portal to Avernus at Baldur’s gate. I recall now how, at the tender age of ten, he and I entered the gate with a party of thirteen. When we emerged, I was one of five survivors.
At least That is what I had been told, for I don’t remember any of it. I remember standing at the portal, then awakening in my bed tattooed and wounded, but alive. Perhaps my mind had preserved my sanity by erasing it all, keeping the evils inflicted upon my childhood from my consciousness. 

I only managed a few explanations before Brandor left in a haste, like I was a foul odor or a fetid corpse. He parted with threats, all of which I am certain he intends to act on. On the tail end of his cruelty, I overheard Pellanistra in distant conversation across the bar. The drow admitted to accomplishing the impossible, killing blood-frenzied bloodborne, and was gifted four mysterious bullets… undoubtedly designed for the same purpose. 

So I am caught between rock and a hard place. The Bloodbound are against me, and the first-mate of the crew I’ve joined has a longstanding feud with The Bloodbound. It left me little choice but to come clean to Pellanistra, and though she is upset with my secret, she doesn’t seem to see me as an enemy. The ground is yet to give way, but the ice I stand upon grows thin.

The end of the day brought more troubles. Antonio was missings for a long stretch of time, and we did not need to search long to discover his unconscious body, left out in the streets along with a wanted poster of Nilsa. We brought him back to the ship, where Pellanistra tended to his wounds and treated his poisoning with an impressive show of alchemical prowess. 

When Antonio awoke, he told the tale of how he ended up in such a sorry state. It appeared he was wounded by Jasper during a noble battle for his own freedom, and had accidentally poisoned himself with a bunk health potion in the middle of it; a blunder I’m certain even he will find hilarious once time heals his body, and his pride. But upon that evening, Antonio startled me twice with pleasant surprise:

First, in admitting that his royal birth is blemished with his parents’ involvement in slave trade, I realize why he so desperately wants to help Helen. Would I not do the same with a lost brother or sister? Did I not admit to Pellanistra just a few moments earlier that I would ignore the blood on their hands if it meant reconciling with the sins of our shared past? It is the innate selfishness of tribalism, which clouds the minds of monsters as well as heroes.
He is only as much a fool as I am, and Helen’s beauty hadn’t a thing to do with it.

Second, he gifted me two potions. He suggested I don’t drink them, as they were from the same “doctor” that gave him the healthless health potion. One was for the voices in my head. He knows so little, and yet wants to help me so badly. How stupid I am to think his avoidance was out of disdain!
Against my better judgement, I am tempted to give the potion a try. I may keep it on hand if Blight acts up again. I would prefer being poisoned over dealing with his tripe again.

Antonio’s second gift was a potion for hair loss. That I don’t understand in the slightest, but I shall hold onto it for good luck, and a sign of his trust. 

In lieu of ‘trust’, it seems I upset Roe. First by taking no part in her games, but that I do not blame myself for. There is no fault in finding time for play at every instant, but she can not expect everyone else to have time to indulge her. My second sin was voicing my doubt in her ability to keep a secret. To this, Roe reacted with an anger and seriousness I had not seen in her before.

I don’t think Roe is lacking in morality, but she certainly lacks impulse control. Add that to her selective memory, and I can easily envision her forgetting what is a secret and what is not. Perhaps she’ll surprise me, for the antics and traditions of a tabaxi are still a mystery to me. I am so used to a position of leadership, I often forget how much I don’t know...