Opalina's Diary - Book 4

This is a creative work set in the world of Elanthia, attributed to its original author(s). It does not necessarily represent the official lore of GemStone IV.

Title: Opalina's Diary - Book 4

Author: Opalina Jalcon

This is a personal accounting of Opalina's experiences during the year of 2025-2026-these are her personal views, and actions from her perspective, logs are being recorded/and transcribed occasionally.

Back to: Opalina's Diary - Book 3

The Lost People

28 March 2025

Three weeks ago, we embarked on an expedition across the vast expanse of the Long Snow. Reports had reached the Giants and our city Marshall of sightings of small people, possibly in distress. As resourceful folks, we rallied a group and turned to the White Wyrm, the impressive airship commissioned by Mayor Talliver a few years back for our occasional trips to the Hinterwilds. Aboard the White Wyrm, we scoured the snowy wilderness for any signs of life. Amidst the endless white, we encountered towering snow elementals until an oddly sparkling area caught our eye. Landing safely beyond the reach of two raging elemental giants, we stumbled upon a chilling discovery: thousands of frozen halflings and nearly twice as many small horses, all encased in ice. Some bore expressions of shock, others were captured mid-stride, even the ponies seemed to be galloping in place—it was as if time had stopped, leaving them eerily alive. Our guide, Hazelnut, etched a rune in the snow before our departure, laying the groundwork for a portal.

The following week, townsfolk gathered to deliberate the fate of these frozen beings. Opinions varied—some advocated for their revival, while others pondered the ethics and the implications of a potential time gap. Were they still alive? Trapped? Did they wish to return? After much debate, we agreed that establishing communication should be our first step. Plans took shape to gather materials, complete the rune, and forge a portal, alongside preparations to create a spiritual link with one of the frozen halflings.

This week, Wizard Ellerel completed the portal, and a group of us gathered, eager to uncover whether the halflings remained alive, wished to live, or were lost to time. Ellerel then forged a connection to what we hoped was the spirit of a female halfling clutching a brush. Her voice emerged, tinged with coldness and confusion, speaking of darkness and a sudden void—once present, then nothing. She revealed her name and title, admitting she wasn’t ready for death. The spell faded too quickly, leaving us intrigued and cautiously hopeful. The halflings might indeed be alive and willing to return, though doubts lingered. Mayor Talliver proposed starting with just her, using the spell’s faint communication channel despite a clear language barrier. We aimed to bridge that gap, to learn her story and determine if she could adapt to our changed world—and whether reviving others was wise, given the potential loss of her kin.

I’m deeply curious about how this will unfold. The thought of halfling ponies roaming once more is delightful, and if these people are merely trapped, their return could be extraordinary. They might bring lost knowledge, magic, or skills to enrich our lives. With Crystal Hall standing nearly empty, a ready home awaits them. Of course, it could all go awry—who can say? Still, I’ll approach this with an open heart and mind, hoping they’ll do the same.

The Halfling Woman

The woman is lithe but powerfully built, her bare arms corded with lean muscle.  She wears a heavy vest of yak hide over an undershirt of woven grass fibers that would provide little protection from the cold.  Her hand clutches a bone-handled horse brush.  Her skin is as dark as almond and her eyes are a rich amber in hue.  They stare defiantly out, death not having robbed her gaze of its intensity.

Starlight glimmers from the crystalline prison of the frozen woman and her distant voice whispers, "I am Kuthlun.  I am bey of my legion.  I am cold, so very cold."

Return to the top of this page.

The Resurrection Solution

19:13, 23 January 2026 (CST)

Opalina moves from table to table looking at different drawings and notes she’s been collecting and documenting about the potion she obtained from the Crypt (person from Ebon’s Gate), Picking up one piece of paper she reads it:

  It’s been a few months of prayer,  and Each prayer seems to have made some change to the solution. AT first I didn’t notice the change the colors must have been too subtle but then it was visually becoming a different coloration. the solution is cool to the touch and doesn’t really have much of a smell. And when I shake it which I am afraid of spilling even one drop at this point, it does nothing but swirl secretly around the tube.  I wonder if this stuff is safe at all.. I know so little. I could be giving my soul to it for all I know. Or I could be creating something horrible. Or maybe I’m just creating something that can help actually break curses. Who can I seek out for help.. Where are all the scholars?

12:13, 1 February 2026 (CST)

[Huntress Chapel - 26827] (u4047022) The chamber appears to be circular. However, a stand of life-sized stone trees obscures the walls, rendering that determination uncertain. Forming an ageless glade, the carven boles of the trees are lifelike, down to detailed bark and leaves. Icicles drip from the rock leaves, and in the center of the frozen grove stands an altar. Obvious exits: out

You stand in front of a carved stone altar.

You quietly say, "Might Huntress, Protector of animals But also the understanding of the hunt. Please help decide the fate of the Ponies from the ice. Will they come back to us through this Solution? Please help these spirits either return to us or placed peacefully at rest."

You remove a hazy olive solution from in your black leather vest.

You kneel down.

You close your eyes and murmur a prayer above the olive solution, entreating the unseen powers for favor and intervention. The glass becomes warm and the liquid briefly illuminates. Roundtime: 15 sec.

You sense that you have not yet received the intervention you prayed to receive.

You glance down to see a hazy olive solution in your right hand and nothing in your left hand.

You put a hazy olive solution in your black leather vest.

20:19, 26 March 2026 (CDT)

A Prayer Beneath the Frozen Wave

The chapel stood in silent defiance of time, its vaulted ceiling captured mid-collapse in a great wave of ice. It loomed overhead like a frozen cataclysm, its surface etched with tormented faces—an endless tide of the damned, forever suspended in their final anguish. Light filtered through the translucent walls, pale and unyielding, casting the chamber in a cold, sacred glow.

At the heart of it all stood the statue.

Carved from flawless marble, the warrior did not flinch beneath the crushing weight of what threatened above. Chainmail clung to his sculpted form, his posture unyielding, his gaze fixed forward with unbreakable resolve. One hand rested upon the hilt of a still-sheathed blade—not drawn, but ready. Waiting.

Between him and the apse stood the altar. Unadorned. Unassuming. Yet it carried a quiet gravity, marked only by a steel plaque and the faint impression of a shield worn into its surface, as though countless prayers had passed through it.

Opalina approached.

From within her black leather vest, she withdrew a small vial—its contents a hazy olive hue, uncertain and shifting in the light. She hesitated only a moment before kneeling, bowing her head as the weight of her purpose settled upon her shoulders.

Her voice, when it came, was soft—but resolute.

“I beseech you, Voln… releaser of souls, redeemer of the lost.”

The words trembled not from doubt, but from the depth of her plea.

“These ponies… they are trapped. Or so we believe. I do not understand the truth of it all.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass.

“I ask you—bless this potion. Grant them life again… or grant them release. Let them be free, in whatever form that must take. Whether they rise to walk beside us once more… or find peace beyond this world.”

She lowered her head further, voice nearly a whisper now.

“Let them choose. Let them hear you.”

Silence followed.

Then—warmth.

The vial in her hands stirred, its surface glowing faintly, as though touched by something unseen. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered in the dim chapel.

But just as quickly, it faded.

The light dimmed. The warmth ebbed.

No answer came.

Opalina opened her eyes slowly, searching the stillness for some sign—some indication that her prayer had been heard, answered… acknowledged.

There was nothing.

Only the quiet.

She studied the vial once more.

At first, it seemed unchanged—ordinary, as it had been before. But as the pale light of the chapel caught the glass just so, she paused.

The color had shifted.

Where once the liquid had been a hazy olive, now it carried a faint amber hue—soft, subdued, but unmistakably different. Not radiant, not overwhelming… but altered. Touched.

Opalina stilled, her breath catching for the briefest moment.

Not silence, then.

Not absence.

A whisper.

Her fingers curled more carefully around the vial, as though it now held something fragile, something sacred. No words came to her lips this time—none were needed. The answer had not been grand, nor immediate… but it had come.

In its own way.

With quiet reverence, she returned the vial to her vest.

Rising to her feet, she placed a gentle hand upon the altar, bowing her head in gratitude rather than uncertainty. Patience remained—but now, it walked hand in hand with hope.

With a small, graceful curtsy, Opalina turned and made her way toward the exit, her footsteps soft against the cold stone.

Behind her, the statue remained.

Watching.

Waiting.

And somewhere within the stillness of the chapel, something unseen had stirred.