3. Scarred and Scattered (Brynden's Journal)

Scarred and Scattered (Brynden's Journal)


  • The small black, leatherbound book looks pretty well taken care of, if a bit dirty. Inside it, somebody writes in a deep purplish-red ink.
    _What am I doing?

    I don't understand half the things I do, or even a tenth of the thoughts in my mind.

    What leads me to do it? Cause I'm good at it? Is it really that simple? Someone had asked me why I look so solemn all the time, and the only response I could give them was to shake my head. I've been asked my wishes, again… I could think of nothing. What do I want out of myself? I don't know. What do I want out of life? No idea. Desires? I have plenty, but none that can be spoken aloud, and certainly none that no other man can claim as his own.

    What drives me? Is it really just my skillset? Do I do the things I do because it's all I know? Could I be more? Could I be less?

    And the thoughts... godsbedamned, the thoughts. They flood my mind, swirling and flashing a moment at a time, intensifying the feelings they cause. My mind has never been organized. It's a blessing and a curse. I am able to focus on many things, a near photographic memory... but concentration is damned near impossible. Drinking calms my mind a bit, but only serves to intensify the thoughts and feelings in its own way. Also allows me to forget. Not completely, but for a moment. What exactly I'm trying to forget... I couldn't say.

    "You need motivation."

    What does that even mean?_


  • _Godsbedamned. What's wrong with me?

    Everything I've done… the trouble and sadness I've caused over my years. I've done things that would make others cringe, without blinking once. All of a sudden, there's something I actually -dislike- doing? Am I so damned blind that I'd believe in something like a conscience at this point in my life? After all I've done? Could I be so self-righteous?? I've had no problem with things that could be considered far worse than what I've done recently. I guess it comes down to one thing about myself I never quite realized.

    I'd rather take someone's life than take their freedom.

    Yet, I followed orders like a good Peacekeeper. What's wrong with me?

    I wonder what she'd think of me... forcing the slaves back into their chains... but I assume it'd be the same way I see myself right now._


  • _I actually enjoyed myself the other night.

    But first, I need to write some things down before I forget.

    I was sitting in Peltarch, enjoying the unusual quiet that I'm not used to getting in the commons. It seemed nobody wanted to be around that night. I began to hear a bit of a crackling sound, as if fire were somewhere nearby. On top of this, I could distinctly smell smoke. No matter what I heard or smelled, when I searched the area, and scanned the town quickly, I saw nothing. Then, in (quite literally) a blink of the eye, I was no longer in Peltarch.

    Well… I was still in Peltarch, but...

    I was in the middle of the N'jast war. Lisa began hollering at me for not being evacuated with the rest of the city, but soon realized I would be there with her and the rest of the Defenders for the pending attack. We spoke a bit about the current state of the city. It seems at the time I visited, the docks had just been taken, and they were getting ready to push their way into the commerce district. Everything around me was wartorn and nearly destroyed.

    Then came the whistling.

    I had heard about Dentin Strauss and his Strauss Organ, the shriekers that destroyed most of the city, and killed many innocent people. I've never imagined the destruction they caused, though. Lisa dragged me behind cover at the last minute, just as the shriekers landed in a fiery explosion in the commons, damn near right where we were standing. It was after the bombardment that I blinked, and was right back in Peltarch, standing where I was standing in the "Wartorn Reality" as I've come to call it, thanks to a... striking new friend of mine.

    My first thought, was that I had become one hell of a time-traveler. Though, thoughts such as this help me in no way. After speaking to Lisa, she said she did not recognize me at all, except for seeing me a couple times around town recently within the last 2 weeks. This means I had not met her in the past. I was not a time traveler.

    It was then I met her. Nalytha, a wild witch, as it would seem. She hails from the Wealdath near Cormyr. Very blunt, beautiful, and carries herself perfectly for a woman of her upbringing. She reminds me a bit of myself... but the opposite. I had a noble upbringing, yet act with the attitude I have. She had a wild upbringing, yet holds herself as a noble. She does not stray away from questions, nor does she seem to care what anybody thinks about her... quite interesting.

    As we spoke, a N'jasti soldier appeared next to us. I can only assume he went through the same experience I had. He nodded when I asked if this was the case, after describing what I had been through, before blinking out of existence once more.

    Most of the "legendary heroes" of the land showed up... though I'm unsure how they manage to solve so many damn problems, the way they ignored me as I tried to give them the information I had. Nalytha on the other hand, was very interested. I spoke for hours about my experiences, including the one I had with Nicahh in the Mermaid, where we saw Kara and her Lieutenant in a vision. Nalytha just kept saying... "I see... tell me more." I can say, it was quite nice. And when she referred to the talking of a Magistrate, Senator, and multiple other "important people" of Peltarch as "Incessant Prattle", I grinned and took her to Oscura to further discuss my experiences.

    After Cymbline left me with the note, stating that "we were now free", I was slightly confused. The more I thought though, the more it made sense. Cymbline and I were not meant to be anything except perhaps a night of passion. We were not compatible in -the least-. I was asking her to change herself too much, just to make it possible... and that wasn't fair. We're both better off now.

    Naly and I had some wine, and other drinks, enjoying each other's company and learning more about one another. Her opinion actually intrigues me. She has such an... outsider's point of view on everything, it's quite fascinating. She's terribly blunt, something a man like me can approve of. She knows she is attractive, and has mentioned it multiple times, almost as if it were a given, and that it was of "No consequence to her that she is built and acts a way that men find attractive."

    I do look forward to learning more about this one._


  • Only a few words are written… but they seem to be written in a sloppier handwriting than before.

    _Alone.

    Maybe she was right. Maybe I'm -meant- to be this way.

    The only thing I have… is my work._


  • _The thoughts and memories, I've tried something new to handle them. I've been trying to go where the environment causes a shiver or a chill to creep up my back from the things I remember when I'm there. Take these random thoughts and face them.

    It works to a certain extent. I… am finding a bit of peace this way. Perhaps because the area itself that I visited first was peaceful, or perhaps it was because s-**SCRATCHED OUT … something else.

    So, in a way, I was correct. I can't control the thoughts right now. They're going to keep showing up. However, I can choose to ignore them, or to embrace them, or to fight them.

    Some thoughts are harder to ignore than others... even impossible.**_


  • _A crutch.

    I was being weak, thought that drinking myself stupid was the best answer. I couldn't bring myself to deal with my own shortcomings, to control my own thoughts of all things. That's bullshit and I know it. I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of but I can't just drink them all away. Everything I've done, said, or thought about, I have to live with. It's my consequence, no matter what or w-Splatter-ey are about.

    Cut my damned neck. Luckily it was on the left side, so it won't be so noticeable. I've been in this backroom for so long, I can't even remember falling asleep. Apparently the dream (Which I remember DAMN well) was enough to make me turn in my sleep. Right onto the broken glass of whiskey I apparently chose to lay next to. Why do I keep having this dream?

    The dreams, the thoughts… I have them for reasons. Whatever they are, I'm not completely sure yet. But I won't be weak. I'll take them, and embrace them, or fight them... but I'll do it without a fucking crutch._


  • _The thoughts never go away, unless drowned in whiskey, rum, or ale. Dulling my senses seems to be the worse thing I can do right now, as the slightest lapse in willpower or the smallest detail going unnoticed could end in more trouble than I may be worth. Yet knowing all this I continue to drink. I continue to attempt to suppress the thoughts. I am unable to even control my own brain, it seems.

    I reach up to touch the scars on my neck often. They are much more than they seem to be. The catalyst for many of a situation, I once was ashamed of the failure they brought to my mind. Never again. The mask I wear, it extends my scars. The black slate is cold, and uncaring, as the etched grey scars covering it's left side seem to blend seamlessly into the constant reminders on my neck.

    (A small stain appears, as if a brownish-clear liquid was spilled on the paper)

    Godsbedamned. They flood my brain like a damned locust swarm, filling it almost entirely.

    And the dreams. Gods they're so real. At least the dreams happen one at a time, instead of bombarding my mind like millions of arrows on an empty field. But that allows them to drag on longer. It allows the dreams to fully flesh out, to show me the entirety of the situation in front of me, instead of white hot flashes of pictures in my mind. The whiskey doesn't even help the dreams… only brings them on more often and stronger.

    I have to decide, it seems. Thoughts or dreams?_