09-19-2022, 07:50 AM
Perhaps I should start at the beginning. For myself, if not for any potential reader who stumbles on this bound journal. Whoever you are, I do not approve, but I understand that curiosity. So let me say my part, without assumption or misdirection.
I met Valette when we were both children. She was mischievous, for a high-born. She was always sneaking out to roam the streets in peasantry attire. I took notice of her one day, because that is what you did, as a street urchin. You watched; Either out of curiosity, longing or fear. Something was not right with her, I knew it the moment we spoke. A noble accent that was poorly masked, skin too clean. She smelled of rich scents so prolific they nearly made me want to gag under my own smut miasma of filth.
It might have been a conundrum, but we became friends shortly after.
We would play for hours. I would show her tricks on the street, she would drag me off to find lost treasure. One time she even brought shovels to dig up dirt to find 'Marleen's Bounty' in a hill on the other side of town. I think fondly back to those days. They were some of the only good experiences I had, back then. My mother had died when I was younger, a harlot who worked the streets. I never knew my father, so when she was no longer around and had no family to speak of, I found myself alone in my quiet misery. Valette helped to open me up, but I knew she could never understand why I felt and acted the ways I did. She either found my nuances curious, or a mystery.
I stole to eat. She learned to steal because it seemed fun.
We were both eleven years old, when it happened. Or so, I think I was eleven. I had no one to keep track of my birthdays for me and they seemed unimportant next to finding a comfortable place to sleep. I was not a fan of the state orphanages, not with those angry old crones. But--
Ah, let me get back on track...
She was eleven years old when I took her life.
I met Valette when we were both children. She was mischievous, for a high-born. She was always sneaking out to roam the streets in peasantry attire. I took notice of her one day, because that is what you did, as a street urchin. You watched; Either out of curiosity, longing or fear. Something was not right with her, I knew it the moment we spoke. A noble accent that was poorly masked, skin too clean. She smelled of rich scents so prolific they nearly made me want to gag under my own smut miasma of filth.
It might have been a conundrum, but we became friends shortly after.
We would play for hours. I would show her tricks on the street, she would drag me off to find lost treasure. One time she even brought shovels to dig up dirt to find 'Marleen's Bounty' in a hill on the other side of town. I think fondly back to those days. They were some of the only good experiences I had, back then. My mother had died when I was younger, a harlot who worked the streets. I never knew my father, so when she was no longer around and had no family to speak of, I found myself alone in my quiet misery. Valette helped to open me up, but I knew she could never understand why I felt and acted the ways I did. She either found my nuances curious, or a mystery.
I stole to eat. She learned to steal because it seemed fun.
We were both eleven years old, when it happened. Or so, I think I was eleven. I had no one to keep track of my birthdays for me and they seemed unimportant next to finding a comfortable place to sleep. I was not a fan of the state orphanages, not with those angry old crones. But--
Ah, let me get back on track...
She was eleven years old when I took her life.
![[Image: dOmPfIR.png]](https://i.imgur.com/dOmPfIR.png)