01-15-2024, 07:22 AM
An old journal finds itself dusted off after infrequent use. Most of the pages remain blank, or possess the slowly maturing scribble of a teenaged boy. A new entry finds its way into it, written in blocky, deliberate lettering.
Quote:I have heard it said, as a joke, that Ualdir gives the greatest battles to the most powerful of warriors.
Why do I feel so weak and powerless, then?
It's an odd weakness, unlike anything I've ever experienced. My hand is as strong as ever, my grip mighty. I can call upon the storm to ravage my foes, or cut them to pieces with flickering shadow. Yet, when that strength mattered most? Where was it?
Why am I alive, not by my own hand, but through the temperament of my captors?
I can't banish their voices, their faces. Looking back at my time spent in the Maw, it feels like a blur. A mesh of mockery and insults. Of my own futile rage and cloying, false sweetness. Their last deception still haunts me. Perhaps it was false, but my rage was real - IS real. I can still feel it inside me, burning like a coal. I didn't know I was capable of such hate, I thought only a demon, or an occultist, could feel those sensations burning within themselves.
Wit. Persephone. Mystogan.
My primary tormentors. I will remember you. I will grow beyond you.
Or I shall die trying.
By Ualdir, I am tired.