(Pavel) journal of a dead man
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The following words appear a smear before they are destroyed forever. It is first written, then scribbled over, ink spilled over some parts, then the paper is torn and shreded and eventually formed into a ball and discarded into a fire, where Pavel watches it burn to ash.
Choices. Turned bad.
I finally made a choice to try to change something. And it backfired. Badly. Worst way possible.
I knew it all along that politics are a bloody messy thing. I should have kept out. Should have. Didn't have the sense to see it. Nor did Sabre hold me back. She probably wanted to leave me that sliver of hope.
And I'm taking the full blame. Accepting it.
I mustn't think of how it truly was. Hold myself responsible. I made the first choice. But it was Yolande's oversized ego that got us into that probably avoidable fight. But Drelan and her don't see that people try to push the limits, to see how far they can get other people.
Nor have they ever been in a slave transport.
If they had needed thirty, they would have demanded forty. But it was my hand that made the choice possible, allowed one of them to kill themselves. Made the lion-freaks make their we're set in our way demand. And thus it was my fault that Yolande decided to attack them. Decided to cast her futile spells, even when they saw our, the Sails resolve to not enslave one of theirs.
We'll never know if they would have accepted thirty bodies, one dead, the rest alive after they saw that. Drelan claims I gave the crew no choice. I don't think that's true. True is, though, that I ruined business relations for the Sails. No doubt about that. Some hundred and fifty thousand gold. Directly. Given away in the forms of a few bolts. Business relations broken. A hand pushing those into a man's throat.
Sabre would have protected me, even from all this blame. Even though she fell to the spells from the Spiders. The attack that was inevitable. The attack that everyone should have been prepared for. But nobody was. Spells finished us off. Drelan and Sabre went at each others throat, confused. The firebrand and ice storm finished them and Yolande. All my fault.
An avoidable fight? I mustn't think that. It is my fault.
It is also my fault ships are now sunk. My fault slave trade in Oscura is increasing. Security pulled tight and those that would peacefully oppose the slavetrade to be watched closely. Stalked.
I made a choice. I didn't think farther, as Amy pointed out. I thought it's a man and a choice. But even a slave is bound into a political net. Passing from one owner to the next those knots aren't as secure as at other times. I destroyed trust. Cut a carefully woven net. With a couple of bolts. Broke carefully arranged alliances, perhaps. By allowing a man to escape to death. Forced a war upon people who wanted nothing but peaceful trade.
Slave trade.
At least I now carry the blame. I prefer it this way. I couldn't stand them looking to me as a kind of hero. Couldn't stand it knowing I tipped the scales, causing as a first result Sabre's death. I tried to keep it from getting even worse. I wanted to be punished.
But I can't tell that anyone. Especially not Sabre. She needs my support now. More than ever perhaps. And I hers.
There's so much more going on already. Kelly, Brennen, assassins now. As I told Drelan, I'll help the crew as long as they let me. Then I should take my leave. I should have known to never sign up to a group that demands you wear a uniform.
But I made a choice, and now I'll have to face the consequences. At least some of it. Or as much as I can possibly hope to handle.
I'm just glad, so very, very glad that Sabre will be there with me. Even if I worry about her safety, I can't begin to put words to what her support means to me. She's the reason I joined the Sails.
I just bloody hate politics.
All I can do for now is bide my time. Learn. Watch. Help. And think of a way to show Sabre just how much I appreciate her. What she's done for me. What she still does for me.
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The following entry is written with long, thoughtful strokes, but some parragraphs seem to be hastily added, almost pressed into the text, smears making them not quite as easy to read. Again others have the wide and unorderly fashion of someone who was not looking at the page.
Mercy's ogre friend Bill is dead. Originally slain for his teeth, Mercy claimed the whole head. As a trophy or maybe a souvenir? Does she mean to own him this way. Mercy is possesive, always trying to take things for herself and keep them. Own them.
Sabre asked me to say something, to say she owned me. And I couldn't bring myself to say it. I couldn't. Even though it wasn't that strange a request considering everything.
It'd be nice if some people would stay dead. Of all the annoying men he has to return to life. Burned. His creations routed, the man still clings to life. And he's angry that the Sails took his silly sword. Wants it back. And he doesn't stop at threats. We drove him off, when he thought he could toy with us, gave him a beating and also send his strange beasts back to whichever level of hell he pulled them from.
He's a dangerous man. He can pull off a direct assault, can seriously hurt. Can heal himself effectively. But when that doesn't work, he is capable of a more sneaky approach. Seducing Sully and eventually killing her. Murdering. He might have been capable of killing Sabre and me as well. We weren't exactly ready for him, but he spared us for now.
Because of a stupid little sword that's not even one ounce magical.
Even Mercy's possessiveness is harmless compared to that. And Sabre's. Sabre once told me about her beasts. I don't think. No. I know she doesn't want to own me. She wants to know, wants to be reassured that I'll be there for her. No matter what. No matter how. No matter when. And I am, am I not?
I don't want to know what Mercy does with her new trophy. But I'm beginning to see Mercy in a new light. She's not all cruetly and rough jests. She's got as many problems if not more than the rest of us. Still, Sabre's been telling me for ages, that under all that cruelty there's a woman that'll bother to keep me alive. That'll help me out, if I knew how to get her help. And that needs someone, from time to time, to look after her.
I'm just never going to hug her. Definitely not. In any case, not like I would Sabre.
It's strange. The mere thought of her whispers, of her arms around me. Her lithe form bending in my arms. Her eyes, her lips softening at my approach. Her voice speaking, calling me. Her everything. It all wants to make me run up and along walls. Even though I'm sure I'd fall. I'm fairly certain I'll land on her, though, if I fell.
What kind of willpower does it take to tear yourself out of death and back into life? Or did he have help from his god? Like things of old, sometimes find their way back together. I just wish Many wouldn't mess up people's mind. Gurt almost turned on us. A worrisome thought. It makes me wonder who will be next, who'd know when and where to strike. But maybe that's how we can find out more ourselves.
Anyhow, if we give back that sword, I want to plunge it into his heart. And rest it there. And if it's a key, I hope it's the one that unlocks the gate to his personal hell.
The key to myself is Sabre. I cannot deny that. I know it instinctively that my understanding of myself is incomplete. Lacking. I need her guidance, her approach, approaches to my body. Only then can I understand how to become more successful. How to further improve the body and soul. How to unite them.
I think that to progress, to move on from here, I need to learn to give up what is most precious to me. I need to truly and fearlessly hand myself over into her care. Completely. Entirely. It is not much that I retain for myself, but a little shard of delusion. That I am a free man. Independent. Anyone watching her and me would probably doubt this.
Maybe I'm just lying to me. And it's time I face the truth.
I am hers.
Dare I speak it out loud?
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The following piece is written on a parchment, the ink given time to dry in stages. The writing changes from paragraph to paragraph, one thoughtful, one hasty, one deliberate. It seems also that sometimes some time passed between lines, or even words, as a line is not continued in the even manner common to a flowing text.
I've been reminded again and again that I'm not exactly the best in a fight. Not in a honest fight, with people prepared for me. For the fight. To be able to win, I have to have the advantage. A clear one. I have to fight people on my conditions. Or should I say, I can't fight people on their conditions. That's folly.
Could call it a stupid idea, to fight Gargothis. He's trained to fight in armor, and with his axe. It's a weakness of his. But while he is so armed, it is his strength. I tried to take this strength from him, but he held on tightly. And he won. Easily. It didn't come as a surprise. And it was interesting to learn his style. I think defeating him will prove an interesting challenge for many.
Sometimes a fight is a clear loss. Sometimes it's a definite win. Maybe there's some middle ground, but the truth is that I'm not strong enough to beat others in a straight fight. My advantage is that I'm aware of that. And that I can often rely on the help of others. When a half naked man distracts people, Sabre manages quite nicely to stab them where it hurts.
Alone, I don't get far. Alone, I'm nothing. Only in a group there's a chance. To win. To survive. And to survive is to learn. Gather knowledge. But you have to have trust. And honesty. If I'm not honest to someone then there's no trust. That much is obvious. That much is easy. But often it is asked how far I trust someone. How far?
Does it make sense? I trust someone while I can see them. Watch them. Then I do not trust them at all. I trust someone while they're in the city. Then I don't trust them either, I trust in the powers of laws, or guards that keep order in the city. I trust someone, or I don't trust someone. It could mean I trust them to stick to laws, to stick to an agreement right until they get made a better offer. There's really no middle ground. Is there?
It's different with honesty. There's middle grounds. Gray areas, as some might call it. It's not black and white. I think the dishonest part is what I would call deception. Lying is different. I lie daily to Sabre, tell her things I don't mean. And it shows, I think. She returns witty comments, usually bests me too. Words are not my world. They're hers. It's an enjoyable game, teasing each other. It's not deception. It's lies. Jokes. Stories. Maybe even the hint of poetry, as she's bound to tease me.
Then there's truths that are said to fool people. Truths that are bound to fall on deaf ears. Or truth disguised as such a way the meaning escapes everyone. That's basically deception, clothed in truth. Deception that is supposed to pass the fine grained perception of a cleric with a Detect Lies spell active. Someone foolish enough to rely only on their stupid magic to ensure the validity of what they hear.
Of course, sometimes you simply lie to deceive people. Tell something that's not true in any case, to cover something else quickly. It's important. It's useful. It's crude. I lack the skill, yet, to make those sound entirely believable. I should try to abstain from such. For now.
Finally, there's the honesty. Simply, straight saying what you mean. Undisguised. Direct. It can be useful. It's one of Drelan's traits, I think. He sticks to his word, clings to it, sometimes. Does that make him a honest man? If he keeps a word, what does he gain by it? Maybe I should ask him that. I think he said it's about his reputation, but I don't know why anyone would give a damn about something that insubstantial.
Is it really this honesty that I share with Sabre that allows us to be so close? So trusting. So taken. Much has changed, in the recent days. Weeks. Months. Ever since she asked me, what she can do for me. Ever since she made me think about what my wishes were. I wonder, I wondered if she wasn't right, then. I don't care anymore. It's doubts that ruin the moods, it's about fun. It's about trust. And it's about honesty.
I slowly allow the storm to take me away again. Let it sweep me into her arms. Driven by the lightnings, looking, searching, seeking and finding. A second part. A twin. But as hard as we try to merge, we will always stay as two. Different, and similar. Separated, and drawn together.
Maybe the problem is a bit like Sabre and me. I wonder if we need some external incentive for it to become one. If it's at all possible, or if they have to stay separated. It seems they want to become one. Very much so. There's little doubt towards that.
And somehow, I have the hope it's possible.
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Written with a slightly shaking hand, that calms down only with the progressing of the text, the following page was neatly folded and pressed tightly together.
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An axe is an horribly sharp object. At least the head. And even moreso when it's in the hands of something big, huge. Something that knows how to wield it. That's what has my head spinning a bit even now. I still can't really believe I stood there, trying to get the giant to keep hitting me with that huge axe.
I know why I did it. To buy the others enough time to get away. I kept telling them to run. But I stood there, accepting the pain. Taking it. For the others. Mainly for Sabre, perhaps. But it doesn't really change the wrong approach to this. I can't take giants. They're beyond my skill. As is all this mystery stuff.
It's not my place to fend off troubles to the city, but it's still nice to hear people care about you. I know Senria prefered me with her, but it's obvious the lot of them don't trust Sabre. It's just fine, I don't trust a sneaking, invisble elf, either. I keep wondering about that strange room. It's supposed to be kept a secret, and so I can't really speak of it to anyone.
What irks me, though, is that Senria hesitated, wasn't sure whether to include Sabre the very moment she picked up that thing. At least she took my hints and promised to include her when she found the time. But as light really isn't Zara's thing, it seems that that much of Seer's visions is true. Seeking. I wonder if we're doing it properly.
That's how I ended up face to face with a giant, anyhow. Ormpur. Looking for remaining loot. Exploring the caves there, taking a look at the damage, maybe. And then a giant scout. It got away, and a small band of giants went after us. It went okay, at first. Just weapons against weapons. Still, a giant hits me a couple of times, I'm little more than crawling anymore. Then one of their casters turned up, together with an invisible guard.
And I acted the part of hero. Sabre scolded me for it, rightfully. I ain't no hero. It's important to know that fear keeps you alive. There we're right back to the very, the only rule. Don't die. The one rule that always counts. Don't die. Her telling me that I shouldn't act a hero was a more subtle way to remind me to stick to the rule. A way to, maybe, even compliment me for what I also did. I did buy the time for everyone to get away, even if Rhistin nor Adam took the opportunity. Rhistin maybe doesn't know that a running giant still won't catch up with me.
That is, unless they manage to wrestle the control of my mind from me. I should always be aware of that. And worried about that. The memory of a kobold humilating me like that is too fresh. Should always be too fresh. It doesn't matter how fast I can move, how quick I can dodge, how swift I can escape battle, once my thoughts, my mind, the control of my body is taken, and I stand held in place, I'm little more than a punching bag. And one that dies when hit too often. And I'm not difficult to miss when I stand still.
For a few moments, I was a hero. Just long enough. Maybe it's also because of what Sabre taught me. Without realizing it, a new pathway has opened for me. An entirely different approach. A new hope. In the past, I always had the old teachings with me, followed the old way. And it led me against a brick wall with Sabre. I could run against it, and it would throw me back. Send me sprawling each and every time.
It's lies in how I was taught, how I approach life. Everything. Rowan laid the basics, but it was Dorn who taught me to learn the limits of my body through pain. Life is just a long torment, a twisting and twisted pathway to death. Every moment of pain, every instant of it, is to be savored, witnessed, remembered. It is the only truth.
I learnt, now, that it is not. When I look through Sabre's eyes, use her approach to me, to my own body, I see that there is more than pain. Pain still seems a good way to discover the limits of the body, to extent of what you can do, but there's also the supportive love. She caresses hurting places. Grants them additional strength. Helps them to reach farther, extend to new limits. Adds to them. It is odd. It is something I do not understand. Something alien.
And at the same time it is also familiar. Welcome. Appreciated. I don't know how to handle this. Not yet. But I have a feeling if I don't start opening my eyes to this new approach, I will never be able to become faster, or stronger. I will forever run into that wall. And be thrown back.
It is time to learn to melt into that firm wall. Become one with it. And I need Sabre's help for that. I have a feeling she will give that help willingly. And gladly.
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The following page was written in a calm hand.
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Sabre is worried sick about that Zara woman. Shadows. That's her domain. Everything seems to be shadow. Oscura is beset by shadows from the crypts. Horrors of the past. And Drelan seeks in the recent history. The history of this Oscura.
Zara is a different thing. Perhaps. She's working for some strange goal. And the only defense against her is hope. Her goal is to destroy hope. Take friendship. Take love.
They're fighting in Peltarch against her, but to only think she acts there is to fail to notice the important parts. Why would she consort with a wizard in Oscura, if she doesn't want something from him? And if you can't go directly to her, hit her through that wizard. That's what would be smart. That's what would be wise.
Like that Ael said, break a mages fingers. He wants to forgive, but at least he's not stupid. Forgiveness. You can't forgive someone for something they haven't yet done. But you can try to break their fingers, so they can't do it.
Hope.
That's the one thing you can field against despair. Against Zara. Mercy's taunts are different. They're friendlyish. Not filled with despair. Malevolence. It's actually nicer. She can be horribly disgusting, like before, when she put that corpse, that mutilated corpse in Sabre's bunk. I suppose we'll be using mine for a long, long while now. Maybe until we get that house. We'll be safe from anything odd appearing in bed there. Not that we're going to need a bed, really.
Keira asked me what Sabre meant to me. I wasn't even sure, then, if I loved her. She still meant life to me. Hope. Hope that there's even a place for me in this world. A place that I can come back to, and people don't ask me about the wrongs I did. Nor care what I can do for them. It's like the distant memory of a long ago past.
I'm drunk on that dream. That hope. A house is just an investment. Just gold spent for more of that dream. I don't think of it as tying us down, anymore. Gold comes and goes.
Sabre stays.
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This page starts out with the handwriting calm, controlled, almost a bit too abruptly ending words or letters. It later becomes a bit larger and appears more relaxed. Seems somebody folded it in a hurry though and stuffed it away without much care.
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A hand moves. But it's not just the hand. The arm follows, obediently. Muscles tense. The body twists a little and then it connects. The arm is slowed, the elbow driving, driven a bit deeper. The body does not pause. To pause is to fail. Not slowing it twists on, turns sideways. Avoids the club. A foot lifts, is pushed forwards. The knee rises, the toes curl up a little, just before they hit flesh. Bite into it, grab a hold. The body bends forward, the club scraping over the back. The toes find a hold, the space between the huge monster and myself dwindles. Disappears. The fingers spread out, dig into the fat on the monster's sides. My head leans back. My body falls back a bit, I'm too close for the monster to hit me with the useless club. A huge fist appears from the right. I put my weight into it, focus and plunge my head forward. The muscles tense. It's like a ripple starting in the fingers and toes, spreading up my arms and legs, until it reaches my neck, my head. Then, for a moment, I go blind. My eyes closed I drive the head forcefully into the monster's chest. It staggers, the fist gropes blindly. My right hand lets go, I roll myself along the fleshy thing. The huge, alien, dirty fist missing me, hitting only its own skin. The ground comes up, the feet hit it, my legs bend a little. I cower, duck. Dodge the club. The huge, painfully large club. But no club comes my way. I look again. The monster staggers backwards, its upper body moving forwards, the legs not obeying. It topples over. Sits for a moment, then its body falls forward, over its own legs. The arrow sticking out from an eye is driven further in. It's dead. I rise.
I don't know why Keira wants me to watch myself, observe my own body during a fight. My guess is that she thinks I would find the reasons for why I move the way I move. But the reason I do it, that way, is that it's worked. That I know what to expect. I'm aware of the way the club moves, where it is, even without looking. I can sense it. Feel its threatening presence. Maybe it's the wind it makes when rushing at me, rushing through the air. I don't ask the whys. Does that limit myself? Does it make me less successful? Maybe.
Rowan would scold me. Tell me I'm a failure. How I was a waste of her time. Probably she'd laugh. She liked to laugh to make people feel small. Unimportant. Wronged. She liked to toss about the complex hints. Speak in riddles. Cloud the understanding. Hide the straight path. I wonder if she believed meditation and bleeding actually led to understanding yourself. She taught me the most important lesson, though. Steel is weaker than flesh. A point impressively proven.
It is a question of training, though. Not of meditation. Not of understanding yourself. It is accepting the pain. Accepting the pain of weeks, months, years worth of training. If you hit a sword, you can break it with your arm. Shatter the steel. You better hit the flat side, though. Flesh is cut. Steel shatters. Just a shame they cloud the truth. A human body has a weakness. Bones break. The trick isn't a trick at all. It's not staring at the sword, wishing it to crumble into dust. That'd be magic. No, the way to do it is train and train and train. Until your skin, your muscles are hard enough to deliver the blow. Until you know just when to flex your fingers to harden the muscle just that little extra bit more. It's a long, painful training.
Steel is weaker than flesh.
Training. Training is stronger than anything. In the end it's always about the training. I don't understand Sabre anymore. I think she should scare me. Frighten me. But I can't seem to find the fear. It's hiding away from the burning. From the bright, bright sun. She seems so excited about getting a house to ourselves. A place where we can be ourselves, and don't have to worry about Gurt, or Mercy stumbling in on us. Or as Drelan put it, where we won't be in the way while they are loading cargo.
I'm carefully optimistic. I always thought about getting on Sabre's ship and sailing away with her. Being with her, sailing the seas. This house business is a reminder of what possession means. You have a whole new way for the tyrannical system to run you down. But that's the part I have to leave up to Sabre. She knows how to play people. How to make them do what you want. But even she has a hard time with a prejudiced magistrate.
I can see how Sabre becomes excited about it, though. We still have been assigned seperate bunks, though it's been a while since both were in use at the same time. We don't own anything yet, that's ours. It's always either Sabre's or mine. As such, it's a further step into binding us to each other. A defining step of the us. But by now I'm already hers, this is merely accepting it. A well trained man. I'm nodding my consent, and even ponder what to put in there, to make it the right place for Sabre and me. For us.
I can't even find it in me to be afraid anymore.
I think we'll even need that crib that Mercy suggested, tauntingly. If we really manage to get a tressym as a pet for the house, that would be great. I remember one from when I was a child. We tried to catch it. Trick it with little treats, I think. I remember how we got awfully scared when it told us to step out of the way. In hindsight, I figure it was a wizard's familiar, but back then, it was a talking animal. We scattered.
I always admired tressyms. Their ability to take to the air, fly away when things got a bit tight. I wonder if they have a nest. A mate to return to. I wonder if they move into houses, and live as pets. Accepting the closed confines of a house.
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Yet another seperate page, written in a hurry, the words barely seperated. This page was later folded and the ink further smeared over itself.
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Reason went and left me alone. It's not like reason to stick around, anyhow. Keira told me to study myself, to understand my own movements, teach it to others. She makes it sound like that would allow me to figure out things. I'm not sure. It has little to do with reason. I'm not sure she understood what I want. Ultimate control is not what I'm after. Sanity. I'm searching for sanity in a storm of insanity.
It's swirling around me, tossing me this way and that. Making me bounce off walls. Crash into rocks. If I'm not careful, it will drag me under the surface and drown me. Drown me in confusion. Horror. Insanity.
It's everywhere.
I think it began with the spiders. Stan. He put on a show for the benefit of Shannon. And he watches. Waits until the murder happened. Isn't bothered by people stabbing others in the streets. It's only important to him that he can convict them. It's a great example of why I give a damn about his gods. Add another item to the list of why Stan is wanted.
But it looks like Stan's been possessed. Or controlled. Not sane. Sabre says he didn't seem himself. But he also pulled out tricks like that sneaky blue bard. Must learn how to beat those kind of tricksters senseless. Ex-Ting suggested to set them on fire. Might work, might not work. Probably are too dodgy for those kind of tricks. Worth a try, anyhow. Probably smarter is to wrestle them to the ground. As long as I keep the grip, I can still hit them in the face.
As long as whatever horror drives Stan over the edge makes him only go after his own men, killing the spiders from within, I'm not bothered. But as Sabre pointed out, we should be concerned. Watch. Learn. And be prepared when they turn those horrors on us.
I wonder now, if it's not Zara's horrors. Whispers speak of her killing children. Sacrificing them. Shadows are her play things. Undead serve her. Shar is mentioned. Loss. Vengenance. She tricked Sabre. Asked her who her loved ones are. Hexed her. I cannot forgive that. Mercy helped Sabre. She still teases her, threatens her. Sabre tells me it's just a game. Mercy can be nice. Protective. But at times, she seems insane. But who am I to point a finger. Few are those that would call me sane.
Sanity leaves the room the moment Sabre enters. All plans forgotten, all ideas to leave her. Free our minds. It seems silly, so long ago. So distant. So untrue. Her faint scent. Her black hair. Her wide smile. Her curved lips. Her hungry eyes. It all dragged me in. Caught me. Crushed any resistance and build me from scratch. Gave me hope. Gave me love. Gave me life.
Another task for the insane. And I agreed to do it. It's a folly. But I know that reason won't play a part in it. Not when I'm done writing here. Not when my mind returns to the unspoken promise of her beautiful dreams. Her tempting voice. She asked me to help her find a steady place. Reliable ground. An island in a swamp. I don't know the landscape. I don't know the treacherous ground. I don't know the deceptively hidden predators. And I'm happy to try. So much about my sanity.
I'm asking around about Zara. Drelan warned that the temple to Shar in Oscura might not be the proper place to ask. At least not ask with force. Can get in serious trouble for messing with the blooded. Maybe it is time we all forget the troubles again. Maybe it is time we arrange for another festival.
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Another page, written independly from the still lost journal, this contains the large letters of angry writing. The page was also later brutally mutilated and ripped apart at least once.
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It hurts. I knew. I knew it all along. But it still stings. Hurts. Pains me.
Of all things to go wrong, that's the worst thing to happen. I try to fix things, try to mend my own scars. Try to become more. For her. For me? And then she breaks it. Shatters it all. With a few words. Painfully sharp words. I knew it was over when I couldn't look into her eyes. The eyes I couldn't get enough of before. I think she understood, too. Saw the cut she left. Maybe she saw it even before. Her breaking the promise was only admitting it, to herself. To me. To us. We both know it's over. Gone.
The end.
It's the past. The painful need to touch her. To caress that slender body. It's gone. Just as her desire to lay her hands on my skin disappeared. A lie. Her request to lie with her. The promise of her body. A lie. To make me feel better. Rhyn doesn't know how lucky he is. He probably has no idea. Nor does Vagabond. Any man, really.
Maybe she realized how she hurt me. How the way of her telling struck me. Cut me. Hurt me. Maybe it was meant to open my eyes. I should have known. Things went wrong. Things kept going wrong. This is just the last thing, in a long line. The last thing to go wrong. For now. I lied back. Deceived her. Summoned up an illusion that all was well. Nothing had changed.
But everything had changed. Everything.
It's over. Just like that. The wrong words said, the wrong choices made. She felt bad for breaking the promise. Wanted not to be responsible. Laid the blame at my feet. Part of it is mine, too. She's right. If I had been with her, she would have gone for me. Perhaps. Probably she would have chosen me. Would she? I don't know anymore.
I never wanted to bind her.
I always wanted her to be free. And to be mine at the same time. Now I have to let her go. Have to let her be who she is again. She never was one for promises. Or rules. Those go against her nature. Another thing that draws the line. She asked my patron god. It had that finality, death, looming in it. She seeks some support from anywhere. Something to pull us together. To keep us.
The end.
Is it a new beginning?
I don't know. Rules go against her nature. Promises do. We made a deal. It signified another end. But also a new beginning. She is more of a woman for deals. A trader. I comfort her, when she needs it, and she comforts me. And I need her comfort right now. Or I don't. Right now I'm a mess.
If I want it be a new beginning. A new start. I have to sort out my own problems first. I wonder if it wouldn't be better for both of our sakes to let it slide. To let her go. Let her go free. Free of me. Free of us.
She brought me great joy, while it lasted. It is time to move on. Time to make her independent again. Time to free her. Of me. She can blame me for messing it up, and I'll be happy to take the blame. And if it's the last thing I do, I'll die with a smile.
I love her.
Still.
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Written not into the journal directly, this page contains a mixture of small letters, almost as if squeezed into a tiny space, and the occasional word written in large script. It also seems to have been crumbled into a ball and maybe was meant to be tossed away.
@b142ea4c59=The:
My journal was taken. Along with the other stuff that was in the bag. It's just one of many things that went so wrong. So entirely, so completely wrong. At least Sabre's still there, smiling at me. Encouraging me to hold on. And I like to hold onto her. Feel her warmth. That's when I feel like I'm dreaming.
It all started with a good group of Sails being locked up in the jails of Peltarch. Tyrants. Or as Drelan summed it up, they bend the rules to their liking as long as there's no political threat to the city as a whole. We shouldn't have gone there, but we did. We should have taken a ship and sailed off. Left this stretch of land behind. Left for good. Travelled into the dream lands Sabre likes to talk about. Beaches with a gentle breeze. Bright and warm water. Pearls. Sun.
The only reason that holds me here is Sabre. She's taken my mind up so completely, I'm not sure anymore I can think at all. But I need to. I need to learn to get over my problems. I tried looking for the Edge again. And if not for her, and for Taria's help, the cells in Peltarch might have been my end. I can't allow this to happen again. I'm bound to wind up in them again. I need to find a calm center. Something to focus. Something that is not the Edge.
But there's only pain to find the focus. Only pain to center in on myself. To discover all the small, tiny places of my body. Is there? What about the white. She hasn't. Not for a while. I don't think I have become immune. I wonder if she's become more careful about it.
Another thing that goes wrong. I'm weak. She says she loves me with all the flaws. It's amazing. She seems to stick with me through the good times and through the bad times. There's also that Rhynn guy. I don't yet really understand him. At least he's got good taste. Sabre's the best woman any man could wish for. She's tough or sweet, she's gentle or wild, she's everything.
Our trial was a joke. And a bad one at that. I think it's amusing how they claim they need Sabre to press charges in order to hunt down the Spiders, while they even brought death on poor Lorence. Lorence the victim. Lorence who always was but a victim. And then, instead of accusing themselves, they seek to blame the Sails. Drelan might have been right to begin with.
Suddenly there was no one to press charges, but still they hunted us down. Lied. Deceived. Ruled with the iron fist of tyranny. It's certainly much more easy that way. And someone did die. But kicking out the elf just because she spoke up in our defense? Seriously, I'm beginning to think a slave is better off. At least they're not deceived about having any rights. Or laws that protect them. Luckily Sabre made sure to come to me, before I woke up. The comfort I needed. I love her. Without any doubt.
Peltarch is out of the question now. Not with the whimsical Tyr-runts lose in the streets. Norwick is taken by the scum of the earth, Jiyyd under siege, the camp lacks comforts and Oscura the sun. I have a home though. We both do.
All we need is a crew. A ship's just a question of gold. I don't want to wake up.
Edit: Added the quote style
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32. Crazy.
All the things happening. It's just not right. I'm going crazy, I think. I have a hard time holding onto sanity. Crazy.
The trap's finally been sprung.
It wasn't really surprising. Not after the Spiders' man voted for keeping Shannon. With the gavel, as Sabre so neatly pointed out. It's always great when she imitates that. Focus. Damnit. Things are at stake here. I don't think the Spiders got Lorance. They would have known the uselessness of their charges then. They're trying to screw the Sails over, and Shannon is happy to help.
His regard for the law and justice must be dwindling by the minute. I can't run, but I can't allow them to lock myself up. It's a lose-lose scenerio. If they try to take me in, it will only be by force. And I'll end up giving them a fight. It won't help. Not one bit. I need Sabre's counsel. I need her. I love her. I This is all screwed up. It's driving me crazy.
Just like that little girl. Yana. I think she doesn't understand what it is to kill. To hurt someone. She's still a child, but I don't really think that matters. For a giant the difference between a halfling and an elven child means very little, I guess. So she's going to be a victim. Unless she knows how to hit where it hurts. And how to sidestep a giant's foot.
The first step is done. She's started to understand just how to aim a kick. Aim it real good. The rest is merely keeping well trained and in shape. The much more difficult part is to not be frozen by fear. A giant is an imposing sight. And I felt my own fear get the better of me. I remember it too acutely, facing that dragon. Even the thought of Sabre. Of protecting her was not enough. I lo I need to learn to focus!
Yana. That's where I was. Yes. She needs to learn to use her fear to her advantage. It's a good source of energy. It should be easy enough to help her learn to run. That's the easy part. The difficult part is to learn to know when to run. And whereto.
It all helps me get down. I'm usually far, far too happy. Unhealthily happy. So happy I got drunk and started talking way too much. I'm so in love, I can't keep it down. And it worries me. It drives me crazy and it almost get me to do stupid things. To mess things up. I don't know. Why?
All I want is her. The world can go to pieces and yet. I love her love her and it's driving me crazy.
Crazy.
Like that war. People fight. People die. And now that some of the defenders die, they complain. Whine. They withdraw. I wonder sometimes if they did look at the odds they were fighting. They must have been crazy to think they'd all live happily ever after. They didn't ask the question if Jiyyd is worth their life. At least it seems like. Sometimes I think Yana understands war better than those standing at the walls in Jiyyd, waiting for the giants to come and fight.
At least Sabre knows that war provides a need for basic things. Sadly she wasn't able to make a real sell yet, but I guess bringing lots of potions and reselling them slightly more expensive than the temple in Tyr, that could work.
Also been in the crypts under Oscura, before I got so horribly drunk. It makes the stories I heard sound all the more real. It's not the first time this Oscura place got screwed up by something powerful. The well? It's bad enough as it is. I just want to hug Sabre and kiss her and forget. I want to beat my sanity with a stick and become happy and crazy. Maybe that's what I should do.
Crazy.
I'm going to end up like that if they take me in. I have little hope of keeping my sanity in a cell. Any cell. I better also hide this journal. Don't want any stupid guard read through it.
When I look at Sabre, as she scribbles away at
-
31. War.
It looks almost as if we fought, smears and stains are all over the place. Certainly was a very interesting, very enjoyable dinner. Lunch? Breakfast? Might have been a couple of days again. I can never tell. Not with her. Not once she stretches, and the light in the room becomes suddenly dim, compared to the smile on her face. I love her. I love her. We fight our own little war. Against a storm that sweeps us away, every time. Though I'm beginning to understand what she sees in storms. I love her. I lov Damn. Concentrate! It's a war for survival, we might starve yet, deprived of food because we forget to eat. I need her more than ever now, that I love her. Love her. Don't let your mind wander!
Maya. Big, tall, muscular warrior. Remember. That was the point! Blond. Sabre's comment was that she likes that I'm noticed, but she'd feel better if it wasn't always the big, blonde ones. I suppose it's understandable, her first attempt at love being ruined by just one like that? But can't she see that I love her? I love her. Only her. Point! Focus! Yana. Small elven girl. Maya mentioned it. Asked to teach. This small elven girl, she said, has lost her parents to goblins or something like that. And she wants the girl to learn to fight. I guess people think just because I comment the occasional fight on the festivals that makes me some kind of good fighter. I know I ain't.
Yeah, there was enough flattering going on in Jiyyd, and almost honest flattering at that, that I wished people didn't put such expectations in me. I can't hope to live up to those. It's a good thing Sabre was there. She provides a great excuse to hide my face. Somewhere. I love her. L Don't slip now! Keep to the point!
It's a scary thought, to try to teach a child. They're just pestering little things. Most are. But there's no reason why I shouldn't help that child stop being a victim and take her future in her own hands. And that's done by knowing how to break a goblin's legs. Instead of screaming at the sight of one. But before you can fight, you need to have the will to strike. I wonder if Maya's stupid little brat has that will. I guess I'll find out soon enough.
Sabre I love her love her Get a grip! They think they've won. Sabre told me to let them have their feeling of superiority. But that's just it, isn't it? These battles, skirmishes look to me like making the defenders feel safe.
Sometimes, I think they try to look at the bigger picture. At what happens next to them. Jiyyd's the target of orcs, giants, bugbears, goblins and that dragon. Huge, fearsome beast that he is. They see that. They see a war. They see the defenses they built, the walls they put up, the gates. They're holding up. Sure, the orcs and even the giants fell easy enough. The battle itself was a victory, I think.
A dangerous feeling.
In the even bigger picture, the dragon didn't really attack. Just sat down, roared or probably laughed at, I suppose, us and took to the air again. If he had joined the small groups of orcs or giants assaulting, there certainly wouldn't have been much left of the defenders. A wall's not going to stop that dragon. And if he wanted, I bet he could land on wall or gate and crush it under his weight alone.
He did neither. That makes me think the real war wasn't there. That was just show. Put on for the defenders' enjoyment. Maybe to give the orcs something to do, too. Sabre and me stayed up on the wall, just losing arrows. Didn't even get us any loot except for a potion each, kindly distributed. But at least it was interesting enough to watch. And I could always watch Sabre, when I was bored. Her leathers really fit her. Even tightly. In places. I still don't know how I managed to have her agree to get the pants cut from her second suit. I love her so. Love her. O Damn. Don't get distracted!
A victory? A false victory, at best. Hollow.
Zoma worries about Norwick, with everyone in Jiyyd, fighting the war there, he might be right that the bugbears might just take Norwick and cut off supplies from Jiyyd. Or the necromancer in their graveyard seizes the opportunity to claim the, as Sabre would put it, cursed and stinking mudhole. Focus!
They're deluding themselves, if they think of a war in these terms. A war is not two armies, or three, or four armies charging at each other. Maybe I'm different, maybe I see it different because I grew up fighting only one or two at a time. But I think each and everyone of these orcs, giants or bugbears has their own story, their own friends, their own experiences, just as the defenders. The war is not hundreds of swords, or axes, clashing against hundreds of shields. It's a collection of small battles. One quickly following another. One mistake and you get hurt, a couple of more mistakes and you're dead.
In an arena, you get a chance to regain your strength, in a war, you don't. Not really. And unlike an arena, a war doesn't stop with a wall, or a fence. There are few that would be watchers, most are part. The people in Jiyyd, for example, those that have not left are there to supply what aid they can to those throwing their lives away. And that's just it, though, those people are victims. Once that Sharn brings his troops into the town, there's going to be slaughter. A war is also all the people fleeing. Moving away from the battle. Staying in new places. Safe places. Smart victims? They have given up their lives, don't even put up a fight.
I wonder if Sabre sees it like that? I don't think she'll stay around, if the tide of the battle turns. The question is whether the tide of the battle will turn slowly, or abruptly. I wonder if that's a storm you can drift with. The last time, it didn't go so well. Still felt great kissing her afterwards. The blood still drummig the fast paced rhythm of a battle in the ears. Her own heart beating the same. I love her love her love her.
I give up. I'm losing this battle anyhow. Maybe I can trick her into waking by getting some fresh bread. Or roasted chicken. Or both.
-
30. Good excercise.
Jiyyd's in deep trouble. Orcs, giants, drow. All teaming up to bring the town to ruins. I was asked to join the fight. I declined. I might still go there, for the excercise, but I won't stay around for the fall. The inevitable fall.
Good excercise? Actually, that sums up the last few days pretty nicely. Frantic days.
I arrived late for the spring festival of theirs but just in time for the log carrying contest. While carrying a load that's far, far too heavy isn't that unusually and uphill at that, they also spilt grease all over the steep. That kind of made it interesting. There wasn't anyone there that could have possibly matched my training. I still managed to lose the contest. I didn't slip until the very last round, and then Zoma's wife, a bundle of muscles and muscles just went past me. The weight she can carry without ever slowing down is truly amazing. It's really no surprise she managed to keep up. I gave her a chance, and of course she seized it. And won.
As with everything, there's no prize for the runner up. In the end, it is not winning that matters. It's getting away with as many mistakes as you can. I did. And judging by her joy on receiving the prize, she can make more use of it than me. She was also something of a main attraction for the men there. Just about everyone seemed to think her blonde hair and well trained body a reason to want her.
So, she also looked rather strong. And they did end up brawling with her, her winning. Of course, I just had to try my hands on her. Speed against raw strength. Carefully aimed punches to sensitive spots against the weight of a boulder slamming into you. In the past, those ferocious warriors that just can tap their rage and really hit you that you feel like a mountain slammed into you have managed to beat me. Even in a brawl contest. Maybe she held back, maybe she spent all her anger already. She put up a bit of a fight, but wasn't really a match for me. I think she held back. Tried to spare me. She said as much afterwards. That so far nobody had complained to be hit too weakly. She did, though. Didn't use all her strength.
I'll have to ask her for a rematch. It wasn't all that good excercise.
But I learnt something else. After that. That strange druid they call wolf challenged someone to fight him as a bear. That went even worse than I had thought. He just bore me down with the weight and then mangled me, not even giving me a chance to strike back. It wasn't good excercise, either, because I didn't have a chance. But at least I learnt my limits. I suppose it's good to know that no matter how much you learn, there's always something that's way better than you. And I suppose he liked to feel superior. Why not let him?
Gurt seemed genuinely proud that we managed to win the riddle contest, and I guess I could take a little bit of pride, too. Guessing the riddles. We both seemed the only ones still sober enough or willing enough to try our minds on it.
Pride.
I have long ago learnt not to take pride in my combat abilities. Not like these folks from Chessenta. They're proud. They live for battle. They thrive on it. The only pride I take is that I've managed to stick to the rule surprisingly well. I haven't suffered a death for a very long time. That I am somewhat proud of. Not my skill at arms, which is far below what it could be.
And Sabre.
I'm. I don't know how to write about all this. I just
It's silly why should I run out of words? If I look back at it, the parts I remember. It seems not difficult to describe. I came from the festival and we went out into the foothills to raid some kobolds. Of course we ended up in each others arms, kissing, tearing off clothes. It's surprising that somehow the clothes haven't been torn apart yet. After that it's just a blur, her soft skin, her sneaky fingers finding sensitive spots, her hot lips leaving burn marks on my skin, my hand caressing her, claiming her.
Claiming her.
I didn't. But that's the whole part of it, isn't it? I didn't claim her. Didn't sit down and say I want you to be all mine. Completely. It would be foolish to do something like that. I couldn't bring myself to own someone. I'm still a bit worried about it. And also, all things in life end. Nothing is permanent. It comes with a beginning and an end. But that's just it. We seperate at times, knowing it won't do as any good. Knowing it won't help. Knowing it will make it just so much more difficult to resist when we meet again.
Maybe that's what got us this rest and relaxation time. That and the desire to do something that's not permitted. Drelan caught us, sadly before we had gotten anywhere. And was furious. At first he wanted to tell us something about the bloodspider mess, but then just gave us deck swabbing duty for the next few weeks. For a moment there I thought he was really angry, then he just started behaving ridiculous and he ruined it.
Seemed for a moment he cared to share some information, then withheld it in order to punish us perhaps. It certainly makes me feel like I'm just muscle. Just there to protect Sabre. As did his reply to Sabre inquiring about me getting raised in rank. I don't care. I'm happy to be always close to Sabre. I'm happy. Very happy to do that.
Come on. Write something.
Words aren't enough. I wonder if we had a crowd, the crates provide little cover. All things have an end. She whispered in my ear then. A second chance. And she didn't wish to waste any time she could spend with me with someone else. I'm still It's like I'm Damn it. I love her love her love her. Scrubbing the deck's quite joyful when I do it with her. Though we strain our voices almost as much as our hands. I love her.
She lies on the bunk, hugging the sheet more than covering herself with it. Maybe she's cold?
Scrubbing the decks sure isn't the easiest of things, but it's good excercise. Strenghtening and with her I love her not even painful. I won't mind doing it all and then doing it all over again. I love her.
Good excercise. Aside from anything else. And damn good excercise with her.
I better warm her.
-
Trapped.
It reeked. Stank of trap. And unsurprisingly it was. I hadn't known the foreplay, so I was blind to the extent of the trap. And we stepped right into it. Foolishly.
I merely wonder if Aarron had been tipped off, or not. Probably didn't need help figuring out there might be gold to make. Ashald. I begin to understand why they're known for having so much gold. He found us cornering the bait. Stuck with us, watched us. Saved us from a mistake? All the while I guess he hoped we'd make a mistake. None of us did make such a mistake, though.
But we managed to swallow the bait regardless. Later. Luckily with no one able to pinpoint the abduction on us. I wonder where this Stan guy was? Did he watch? Did he chuckle at the thought we'd get his bait and kill it?
Lorance didn't go to a safe place, if he was a Spider. But wandered about aimlessly. Another point in his favor. It was all in his favor, that is why I stayed my hand. Only hit him once, to show him the pain would come the moment I hear an unsatisfactory answer. He's not that weak, either. A common man might have very likely get knocked out from that slap. A mere traveller? Looking for work? Can he be believed, trusted?
The bait was well done, dressed up and ready to be swallowed. We did swallow. And we almost chocked.
Trapped.
I did some serious questioning. I can but hope the quickness of my questions and his equally fast responses mean he isn't lying. If he is, he's damn good.
Send him back to Waterdeep. Or anywhere else? Or discard of him for good? I'm sure if the spiders look for him, they'll guess we took care of him. Maybe it'd be smarter not to know what happens to Lorance. It's probably best to be ignorant of that.
Especially if I find this Stan. He's going to lose more than a few teeth. I just need to figure out a way to trap him.
I'll need help. Sabre, Taria, the rest of the crew.
-
After a couple of blank pages, the script returns to the larger and cruder letters again.
Backwards.
It's all backwards. I shouldn't have left. But I still had to. Not that my presence made much of a difference in his downfall. It still is in a way rewarding to have been there, but in the big picture it was a folly. I got screwed, and from what I read, Sabre got screwed as well.
Coming back. It's strange to think of going back some place. But it's so. I returned home. Well, I was returned home. Luckily Sabre managed to get me out of jail just in time. I wonder if they recognize whoever was put in there in my place before they take his head off. But that's not my problem.
I'm back. Back to where I belong. Back to where I want to be. Right in Sabre's arms. And despite everything, despite the pain I put her through, she still welcomed me. It made my heart jump and I had a hard time to keep from crying. I still struggle with tears whenever she turns her happy smile to me.
The Sails accepted me back as easily, no one asked any questions. I wonder how much of that I have to thank Sabre for. And yet, the whole place is still as messed up as ever.
Justice.
It's a word. It's an idea. It's a lie. A huge lie.
I've not been back a tenday and already witnessed a trial that wasn't a trial. Not what I'd think a trial should be. It was an investigation into what the accusers did wrong. It was a showing of muscles by some thugs and the Order demonstrated that they had the bigger muscles.
Sywyn claims he didn't hurt Micky. Micky the victim. I found the whole farce amusing. I wonder if Shannon had it figured out as well, that Sywyn's innocent. And yet he had to condemn him for something he hadn't done. He only called it negligent harm. But he was still found guilty despite his innocence.
Justice.
It's amazing that Sylvain can think of it as a success for the Order. That anyone can think of it as a success. Aside from those that resent both sides. I think it was like new slaves going at each others throats about who gets to peel potatoes and who gets to carry out the garbage.
It could have been easily avoided, I think. But Sylvain was more interested in proving that the spiders were liars than he was in proving Sywyn's innocence. He got his reward, though. The spiders got arrested for assault. The fun part is that at least their wizard can claim she acted in defence. Simply because they managed to have found Sywyn guilty.
Backwards.
It's not justice. It's politics. And the problem is that the Order does it as well. Damnit. I don't have a problem with paladins fighting demons and devils and whatnot. But when they start trying to run a city, something's wrong. I wonder how long till having a what do they call it? Taint? is a reason to be found guilty and hanged.
They're kidding themselves, too. About magic.
They think their divine magic is the way out of everything. Zone of Truth, Discern lies. Jokes. I'm mediocre against spells, but even I can fool the usual cleric. And I bet a lot of people can stand under those spells and lie to their hearts content, making their precious Daisy think whatever they feel like about their truthfulness.
I wonder if this new branch of justice is better or worse than before.
I'll just have to keep a low profile. Stick to the laws by the letter and so on. The whole heap stinks though, now that you can get arrested for defending yourself or your friend.
I should just put this out of my mind. Forget it for now. I don't know whether I want the Order to lose, or the Spiders. I think it couldn't hurt to have Shannon kicked from his post. Maybe that's what Aarron's trying? Get his Nyda the place of magistrate.
Natanya even claimed that the justice of Tyr might see the greater good. The need to sacrifice one innocent man for a hundred others. She called it rightgeous that they had the lizards cut up that man, and return him as little pieces.
I'm beginning to really wonder why she wishes to talk to me. And in private. Then again, maybe I shouldn't give away that Sabre is my one big weakness. Guess it's time I follow up on her invitation, if she's not armored to high heavens, I might even be able to beat her in a fight.
Sabre stirs. A dream awaits…
-
I think I drink too much.
I drink too much and I cry too much, and I think everyone notices.
Everyone notices, and I'm too tired to care, too tired to bother hiding my pain anymore. I should try harder, shouldn't show this weakness to everyone, but I can't seem to bring myself to stop.
I was never strong. You know that about me, you accept me with all my flaws, but others… Taria and Corana have talked to me, tried to advice me. They care, even Corana cares in her own way, but they don't coddle or pity me, thankfully. Instead they push me, trying no doubt to snap me out of my self-pity. I try too, I'm sick of feeling this way but I just can't...
I feel so naked and vunerable without you by my side, without your strength to lean on, your body to shield me, your sharp mind alerting me to the dangers ahead. Pavel is the strong one, I told Taria as we ventured deep into the Kua Toa caves. She nodded at this, but added: Just because he's strong doesn't mean you're weak.
Maybe she has a point, and maybe she just thinks too highly of me. I don't feel very strong. A Kua Toa swordsman cut my side open, I dodged too late, my gut instincts telling me you were there, ready to break the blow headed my way, and probably the arm weilding the sword aswell.
I need to adjust, to get used to what's really the normal state of things. You've only ever yourself to rely on. I've lived by that for so many years, it's shocking to realize how easily and completely I've let myself come to rely on you. So many things you did for me, without my ever having to ask. Blows taken for me, dangers assessed while you scouted ahead. Your soft, calm voice advicing me. A gentle nudge to step back, when the battle became too much.
Corana took me to the ettin caves, just her and me. I scouted ahead, my heart hammering so loudly in my chest that I was sure the shaman would hear me, would freeze me with fear and pound the life out of me again. He didn't. Corana unleashed the Queen's wrath on him, and now he won't do anything but decompose. The raid was cut short though, I just couldn't... I'm not as strong or as brave as you, I hid behind the door when they charged at Corana, she took the blows alone before I got up the nerve to fight again. We got out alive, but once again I missed you acutely.
You should have a replacement bodyguard, Corana said. She's offered to let me use Gurt, even joked wryly about whether or not to ask him to perform all the same so called duties you did. I think Gurt would die of embaressement if I invited him into my bed... poor, sweet Gurtie. I couldn't do that to him, not ever, it'd be like seducing a child. Not that I feel very inclined to seduce anyone anymore. In fact, it seems I can't bring myself to do that either...
I tried. You know how I hate being alone, so I tried to find some sort of comfort, some release from this ache inside me. Most of my old lovers are not the sort I'd care to show even the slightness weakness infront of, but Vagabond is different, safer in that he does what I tell him to, safer in that he won't judge me or try to find a way to use me. So I went to him for once, usually he finds me. I was a little drunk, and very blue, but I tried anyway.
I put my arms around him, and he wasn't you.
I kissed him, and he wasn't you.
His hands caressed me, but they weren't your hands, the scent of him wasn't yours either. He got closer and I just couldn't bear it. He wasn't you, and I couldn't bear it.
I want you back, no one else will do, no one else can fill the hole you left in my life. My bodyguard, my lover, friend and soulmate. You're all these things and more, you're irreplaceable and I need you back with me. Please come back to me, please come back. Please.
-
The following entries in the journal are written in a very different hand and style than the previous, the pages buckled and stained here and there, as if various liquids have been spilled onto them. The style is mostly small and neat, but in places the quill seems to be stabbed into the paper with great agitation. In other places the letters are large and uneven, trailing crookedly across the pages as if the author was not quite sober at the time of writing.
I've read your journal now. Twice, no thee times already, soaking up every word as if it was your very soul bared infront of my eyes. Caressing each page as if it was your skin under my fingertips. You never said I couldn't read it when you left it in my care, just to keep it safe - you had to have known I'd never be able to resist.
Funny, you wrote about this, wrote that I could read your journal once you're dead.. once I'd killed you. I wish I -had- killed you, instead of letting you go. Then you'd not have been able to leave me to this misery, to this unbearable state of longing, wishing, hoping against hope that you're alive and well, that you'll be back. I don't do well at the whole optimism thing, and all this waiting, the not knowing.. it eats at me, nibbles away at my sanity day by day. I think I'm not doing too well at covering it. Everyone notices, the crew especially. Don't be so melodramatic, it's not like he's dead, Drelan said. He regards you as capable, and you are, but that's not enough. Not always. I know he's probably right, but he doesn't -know-! You could be dead, you might have been for days and I'd have no way of knowing, I..
I don't wish I'd killed you, not really. I want you to live, need to believe you'll return, but I was never one for faith or hope, no matter how I might long for such comforting thoughts now. I'm so alone, and there is no one I trust with my misery, no one I want to confide in but you. So I write this, I scribble my pain across the pages of your journal, stretching out my words like a ghostly hand reaching for yours. It's the closest I can get to you now.
–-
Fark!
I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... you trust me with the very heart of you, the core of who you are, and what do I do? I leave my greasy fingerprints all over the pages, I smudge the ink with my stupid tears and I spill cheap wine all over it. I've messed it up, like I always do, like I warned you I would. How the hells could you be so dumb as to entrust me with this? And how could you believe me when I said you could leave, how could you go? You bastard, how could you leave me alone, when you swore you never would!?
I hate you.
You just had to give me a chance, a say in the matter, to stop you or join you. I'd never have forgiven you if you'd just left, I would have been furious and heartbroken. But at least I could have blamed you then, I could have been angry at you, hated you instead of being torn and teary-eyed, filled with conflicting emotions as I am now. You made it my decision, and I agonize over it still, I regret it bitterly one moment, and in the other I don't.
I persuaded you to stay, I saw your resolve crumble and I just... I couldn't hold you to it, it felt too wrong. Like you yourself phrased it: I want you to be mine and I want you to be free all at once. Neither feels right. I wanted you to stay, desperately, but when you agreed, I saw it. I was asking you to be someone you're not, to break your promise, your pledge to your friend. For me. I just couldn't let you, I couldn't though it broke my heart. I still don't regret that part, I can't. I love you for who you are, and I won't have you change that for anyone. Not even for me.
But I.. I should have gone with you, I should be with you now. I wanted to go, I could have helped, I'm sure of it. I could have been bait, could have watched your back, or just... I'd have distracted you too, it's true. I am your weak spot, I make you feel and for this task, you need to be strong, cold and without mercy. Perhaps you have to face this alone, or not at all. I'm not sure, I'm not sure of anything at all. I hate the past and all the ways in which it snares and trips us, just when we think we've left it behind for good.
You wanted me to know, to understand, wanted my blessing. Well, you have it my love. No matter how I weep and curse your name I understand, I do. Some doors to the past need closing, one way or another, or they'll keep haunting us. Some debts need, deserve being repayed, no matter the cost. So go, punch teeth in, rearrange faces and break bones, go but remain who you are. Do what you must, but remember that you are loved. Always.
In the end, regardless of all else, these words are the ones that echo inside me, that follow me into sleep and remain with me upon waking:
I love you.
I miss you.
Please come back to me, please come back. Please.
-
18. Decisions.
It's weird how the strangest things happen to at the most unpredicatable moments. The fairs have been a moderate success, but what happened at the highharvestide fair was really strange. If I believed in silly stuff as fate or gods, I'd think they meant for me to hear it. But it's plain, that it's the very nature of fairs to attract news from a larger region. And that's what I learnt. I heard a name I haven't heard for ages. A name I swore to make extinct. A promise made to Pavel when his blood on my hands was still fresh.
No fate.
It's merely a fact that the martial nature of the fairs would attract the a part of the same crowd as before. Now that I think about it, it is a scary thought. I wonder if any of the visitors recognized me for what, and who I was. But that's likely giving myself too much credit. I was just another fighter in their eyes, I guess. And this time, I was just another servant. Dressed still in my commentator gown, I was sitting and staring at a fire, drained, tired. When the wind blew the name to my ear. Whispered it to me, and instantly I was wide awake. Listening to the conversation. Hoping at first that it was not the same man.
This is not like me.
Something changed me, I have become accustomed to my life here. The comforts. The respect. The friends. Sabre. The Sails would stand behind me, help me, I like to think. Some of them even out of friendship, rather than duty. Sabre would probably come to the end of the world with me, if I asked her. I know I would follow her to hell or heaven, or wherever. I like to think none of that is bad. Except that I have become lazy. Reluctant to follow through with action.
A choice.
It's really that simple. All I have to do is make a choice. Either I go after him, or I don't. Pack most of my things and hire onto a caravan headed for Vaasa. Or don't.
Something is awfully wrong. I can't decide. I promised Sabre to stay with her. I know that he has plenty of mercenaries in his employ. He needs them. He's probably also a respected person or whatever. If I go, I won't make it quick on him. Not him.
He's the one responsible for putting Pavel and me against each other. He saw how well we worked together and he paid a lot of gold to watch us fight each other to the death. I'll help him find the Edge. And stay there for days.
I know I have to go. But I'm putting it off. It has been a week already, and I have not made a move towards preparing anything. I'm lying to myself, telling me that I don't need to pack anyhow.
I want her to come, and I know it's a bad idea. We'd just get distracted and I would forget.
But I think that is the problem. I want her to know. To understand. I want her to give me her blessing or whatever. Stupid word. Blessing. Then it is no longer just my decision. If I tell her. To her face.
I wonder if she persuades me to stay. I think she could, if she really wanted. Should I lie to her? Tell her that I'll be back? It'd make parting easier, and worse. We'd both know it for a lie.
No. I better be honest.
Or should I simply leave? Disappear in the night, or in the early morning? Maybe leave a note, telling where I went.
I will soon have to make a decision. Or give the promise up entirely.
Is it my decision? Or hers as well?
-
17. Lucky.
Come to think of it, I'm one lucky bastard. Man.
Things change, and some don't.
We're no longer quite as hopelessly, we adjusted, manage to exert some control. It's no longer the unbridled primal force, the hurricane sweeping us away. I suppose she'd say we sailed in stormy waters so long that we learnt how to cope. Little tricks to figure out quickly where the storm took us, for example.
Where it took us.
This Edward freak really ticked me off. But I learnt before that messing with some powerful extra-planar spellcaster isn't the smartest thing to do. Not until I figured out how to make spells bounce off me, anyhow.
Gurt would have probably liked to charge those minions and according to little Aka, Devlin and her were involved in killing one of them already. One dead, only to have themselves be caught and killed by another of the monsters.
I'm more lucky.
I faced Edward's minions twice with a group. First we managed to chase it off, by attacking and hurting it quite thoroughly. The second time, mentioning Edward as a name allowed us to get past without being slaughtered. Both times the beast might have been able to kill the whole group. Luckily it didn't.
What really pissed me off, though, is that the freak had me dragged through some magical hole just to spout some stupid warning at me about not messing with him. I've been spreading that warning since. Just as he told me. But I do it in the hope of getting some goody-two-shoes, wanna-be hero to go after the old fart. Mess with him. If they should succeed it won't be quite as satisfying as personally rearranging his face.
It's easy to forget. To not care.
It's enough to merely think of her. Imagine the gentle curves of her body in the dimness of the room. The candles usually go out way too early. The only sound her breathing. Soothing. Reassuring. Even now I can sense the beating of her heart. Slow and relaxed. It's easy to forget everything else. To let the world fade out.
I shouldn't.
I trained more. Actually even went and stuck my nose in silly tomes about that weird Ki stuff. What was it Yu said? I only know if you're there already, you're faster than if you have to move there. I never understood that silly need to disguise the powers. Cloud the access. They would call it wisdom. Understanding. Of the world and so on.
Screw the masters.
Nothing beats lots and lots of training. And then some more. I watch. Observe. Analyze. And I've started using weights again. None of this listen to the song of life and play the tune of death with your hands crap. A well aimed strike with the side of the hand, the muscles there taut, strained, hard, directed against the obvious way a bear paw moves, simply is bound to hurt. And if lucky breaks a bone. Or two. No big secret. No special strike to that special note that causes a bone to break. No Ki. Maybe knowing, understanding how the body works. How it's shaped. Where muscles are. Where bones are. How they connect. And how those connections are broken.
I'm skirting the real reason.
I don't know anymore if I imagined it or if I made it up because it fitted my expectations. I avoided her. Gave her time alone. I knew she'd go and use it the way she did. I wanted her to do it, too, I think. It's weird. I want her to be mine, and I want her to be free at the same time.
Neither feels right.
But I'm just so damn lucky she's like me. She understands, I think. Reassures me. And it's easy to believe her anything. I need to remember though, that it's not words that count. Words are hollow. Words are what the masters spout. I'm a man of action.
Sure, they can talk all day about how someone who understands the secrets of places and planes manages to pass between places at will. Step into the place beyond, the place that is not, and come out wherever they wish on their next step. It's a stupid idea.
I know where I'd go, if I could do that.
If I am as lucky as I feel, she'll be there already.
-
16. Trade.
Give and take.
I can hear the voices, the bustling crew outside the room. I don't remember if they came in the room, or not. Nor do I really care. Sabre asked them to leave us the quarters for a few hours, and maybe those are over already, or maybe they haven't even started.
The worth of clothes.
I can still remember her skin under my hands. Her back was badly in need of some easing. It might have to do with her drinking too much, and so much that Mercy wanted to feed her acid. She fell asleep on the ground, only half on me. Her prize for my clothes, was a massage. A lot of gentle work and the most of her prize was spent on her back alone. She sleeps now in the bunk, one of her slender arms hanging losely down the side. It's high time I collect my thoughts again. So much has been going on recently.
Parties.
It's the aftermath of the houseswarming party. Corana showed up, thankfully keeping some kind of control on Mercy. And even Celina appeared, complaining about Mark and hers lack of children. The mood had been really good, the Walk the plank game had eased people up. And the crew was laughing about Drelan saying "I'm a sissy" and then walking up to the parrot. Which the parrot never told him once. Ocean showed up in time to save the mood and provide the background for the musical booze and already people were drunk, Drelan even so drunk he agreed to partake in the strip-dice.
All of us were having a good time, I think. A good party, Drelan said, and Sabre will receive her bonus soon. What was its price? Sabre got some expensive drinks from the Ferret, of which most are still left, I think. And we spent a couple of hours or days thinking of funny games to play. Is that the price you pay for an evening of fun and joy?
Gold for fun.
It's the same with the festivals. We do little more than advertise a place and a date, and then bring together people. Of course, we're also always thinking of things we can have the people do, of little other challenges and of things to give away as prizes. Thanks to Lacey funding the greengrass festival, we almost made a gain. If not for the prizes. I wonder if we play a part in making people happy with this, if it makes a difference. Or if it doesn't.
I thought it was quite entertaining to see how people struggled with the various difficulties presented to them. Oil, blindfolds, web. It seemed to favor those small halflings. Ginger and Gonnar being the runner-ups. But Keira winning this time. She's become truly amazing. She not only possesses the knowledge and wisdom of a mistress, but now she's also managed to unleash the power of a barbarian rage. I still think the gold spent is a small price to pay, for the knowledge gained.
A good trade.
A merchant in Oscura. Mogul'Don Tor. Keira leads us to him. He sells all kinds of interesting things. Not what I really want, but a very useful wand. He shows me pieces of fishbones, carved into some odd forms. Calls it art. Claims they're worth ten-thousand gold. I almost laugh in his face, then think of the little statue we got from Ettins. He offers to trade the wand for the statue, a good deal, I think. Despite the statue being magical itself. I want the original, not some cheap imitation.
Art.
He was willing to give me something worth six-thousand gold in exchange for a little slightly magical piece. I think people are crazy. But I also think if people are willing to pay this much, it is time to collect. I just need to find someone who can tell me more about what art is. It's not in Sabre's usual sales.
A bad trade.
One of us, a hundred of them. Drelan's trade for a life. It's easy to get lost looking for the blame, but utlimately it was the Ettins fault. It was his hammer that hit Sabre so hard, I was afraid her body could be raised at all. It could, thankfully. And I think with the party she now has forgotten about it as good as possible.
She asked me never to leave her dead, to always return her to life. And she doesn't want to end up in some paradise with paladins. That made me smile. Because I wouldn't be there.
Give and take.
Sometimes I'm scared that I'm not enough for her. And apparently she has the same fears. Maybe it's a bit like the flower Kull tossed far, far beyond the field. You see it lying there, far beyond the reach of your wildest dreams. But we keep trying regardless. Both.
It's odd, I keep giving more and more to her, and she gives more and more back. If not for the back and forth, we'd be broke now. So it's the best trade I ever made.
The best deal ever.
-
15. Victims.
A midsummer night.
Sixteen. No, fifteen willing victims.
That's what made the whole thing a success. Money wise it was a ruinous affair. I'm just glad Sabre stood with me. Still stands with me, despite this whole thing going against her very nature.
I think it all began a few weeks back. The idea.
Children.
Usually I hate them. Passionately. They are the victims.
Not so that boy in Ormpur. The people I was with thought him kidnapped by giants. Impressive fighters, giants. They insisted on going into giant territory to see if they can rescue the kid. Some of us almost die, but we find the kid beating on giants.
I was impressed. Thoroughly impressed.
This is no ordinary child, he doesn't want to be a victim and fights giants. Despite people telling him to rather cower and hide in houses. It made me realize that the people just need inspiration to fight. If you show them how fighting is done, they will pick it up themselves, perhaps, and stop being victims.
Motivation.
I've first seen it in Norwick. They just ask people to come and beat each other up for the show. Norwick thrives, then. Mercenaries and even the good people come and watch. What they watch for, I don't know. But I learnt a lot. It was an interesting combat.
You pretend you bring people together for merriment, as Senator Mariston called it. Paladins. They like to think they're helping the people. Well, maybe he is. But the merriment wasn't the main attraction. No. The main event was people beating on each other for little more than material wealth. Or entertainment.
It was hell.
I felt my sanity slowly seep out of my body. Collecting like blood on the ground, seeping into it. Disappearing. All these people around me. All of them looking at me, watching me. I was certain I was turning mad. It's a good thing I kept focused enough on the next task. The next item on my list. The next pair to fight. The next target to be shot.
I pulled through it. Somehow. And only crumbled into the heap I felt when it was all over. The worst thing was the feeling of weakness. Utter helplessness. It's good Sabre was there. It's good Sabre has shown me this state before. I accepted it. I didn't start breaking bones. Without Sabre, I would have surely been lost. Her touch, her arms gathered me up in more than a physical sense.
Sabre.
During the fights I heard her voice explaining to Mercy, gesturing to me. Talking with a hint of pride about me. Admiration. I think I have become a bit vain.
Learning.
Once more, the rage of the barbarians prove to be quite powerful. Grag was there. Huge. Powerful. His strength is his axe. He can probably kill most people in a few moment, leaving little more than seperated pieces. He won the fights, despite Hedia having first taken him out. The fights greatly favored people of physical strength, but their weakness was magic. It was a bit of a disappointment so little spellcasters turned up.
But it was interesting to see them fight. Mariston relying on his sword alone, others fighting with two weapons. Even a Zyphlin showing up, trying to dance out of the way of Z's weapons. Keira impressed with her lithe movements and managed to put up a fight against Grag, though in the end she lost.
What did I learn?
Even if you catch someone unaware, if they grab a weapon, they might still tear you apart. You have find out their weaknesses and use it against them. Some fall to spells, some to overwhelming strikes.
In the end, I think it inspired people to fight. Especially the last fight. Keira, small, despite her tatooes almost deceptively fragile against the huge, thickly muscled form of Grag. They didn't use any weapons, just their hands and feet against each other.
Keira had a chance. A small one, admittedly.
I hope it inspired some of the spectators that no matter how the odds look, you should still take up the fight. Try. Maybe they'd die.
But at least they wouldn't be victims.
