Writings of a Sad and Lonely Healer - Brother Terrance

(You find an old and worn journal on Terrance's dead body, the first page seems to be some sort of set of instructions)

Instructions:
1. Do not, under any circumstances read previous entries.
2. Record daily occurences and thoughts.
3. Revise for spelling and grammatical errors.
4. Set a timed conjuration to dispell and then summon this book at the end of tomorrow.
5. Place an empty bottle of liquor in your hand and cast a spell to wipe your memory of the previous day.

...

17th of Mid Year - On the second page of a newly purchased booklet, with strangely fine and calmed writings

I do not recall keeping a journal ever before... but an old friend has stopped by today, and he is certainly worth note with my diminishing memories and all... I do not wish forget him.
He came in as I was speaking with a peculiar bosmer girl, I say that because I know she hides something, not because she looks weird. It is quite unlike him to do such a thing though... Before he used to be so shy and never came out to anyone, but he opened right up to her, like a book. Perhaps his experience has changed him...
I urged him to turn away, she was volatile, dangerous, but took an unexpected interest in him as well. As per usual, he did not heed my word.

It has been made clear to me she cares nothing for him. She does not even bother to know who he is, and only cares for her own agenda, I continue to tell this to my friend but he refuses to listen, again thinking she is different. He is wrong, I know he is.

I am only glad he was able to come back and talk to new people after what had happened before... after what *the writing becomes quick and angrily scratched onto the page, much unlike the rest of it* She did to him

20th of Mid Year - with his calm and fine handwriting as per usual

Perhaps I misjudged the bosmer... She has taken more interest in my friend than many ever have. Redclaw says it will pass, and it probably will, but I will enjoy it until such time. It is good to see my friend happy again...

The people of town are speaking of daedra, vampires and wolves surrounding the town. That would certainly explain why I've seen so many of them lately... But all the better game for me and Faldir, I say!
Speaking of which, Faldir has grown happy... he is not usually happy... I do not think this spells good news for him, but I do not wish to pry on his personal doings.

People are all in a panic about these daedra, but I have hunted them all my life and thus feel no such fear, Sometimes I wish I could sympathize with others like my friend can...
I would join the local guild efforts or guard but I'm afraid I'm much to shy to do so. My friend will not urge me to for obvious reasons though *His writing becomes more scribbled and roughly written* She is the captain of the guard, after all

21st of Mid Year

The daedra attacked today, it was only a skirmish, but Faldir was injured nonetheless which is much unlike him. As I said before, his happiness only spells and I've found the orc that has induced him with such a curse. Faldir is too foolhardy for love, he would throw his live away even if he needed not do anything to help them, I pity him, but he refuses to talk to me about it. I understand though, it's a sensitive subject...
Speaking of which, my friend has yet to be abandoned by the bosmer girl. I am glad...
Redclaw on the other hand has not had as much luck, he is still rich and throws his money around ladies, and has lightened up as so many of them are finally single! Sadly, though, he has yet to find a good one, I pity him. His live is a chase...
*his handwriting began to loosen, slowly becoming more and more sloppy and jagged* But there is also grave news, I'm afraid... She has been frequenting the tavern as well, whenever she comes into sight my friend retreats to safety, which is good. *his writing repeals back to it's normal, smooth tone* I would not want him getting hurt again, though the more he is around, the more reliant upon him I find myself...

23rd of Mid Year - the writing is clearly hastened from his previous entries

The daedra attacked today... I was asleep and too weary to fight after my friend continues to meet with that bosmer. I could've helped... I could've stopped a large majority of the death today, but I did not. I cared for my friend's safety instead...
Faldir has taken an unhealthy interest in this orcish woman and asked me to heal her, but when I got to the clinic I forgot what I had gone there to do and instead helped Xithic recover from his injuries. Apparently there was a vampire among the injured, I feared that sympathizing would compromise my friend's safety and so I did what a right priest would do and urged it's death, taking part in the attack as it fled. Seriduril was quite rude towards Xithic, caused him to storm off in a rage when he was to be silver-tested, though it is understandable given he is a werewolf. I do not think Xithic knows I know his secret, I just wish he would tell me himself...
Near night I met with a... odd girl, my friend came out to meet her as well. I could not tell whether she was a strangely short altmer, breton, or bosmer. I found that she was a healer, like me, and my friend warmed up to her right quick, although... *his writings became more ravenous in appearance almost instantly* She also frequented the tavern that night... my friend has been smart to grow ever cautious around her and so he hid away whenever she entered. I ignored her as well, hoping she would leave him be... *his writings once again become normal* apparently the healer girl found it obvious when he had left... perhaps I am becoming too reliant on him... I should have learned from the first time...

This page is undated, and seems to have Terrance's handwriting, but slightly distorted

Here I lie, in my fortress of solitude
Faldir is tending to his injured beloved
Redclaw has busied himself in the pursuit of happiness
And my friend has completely given himself to the bosmer. He is out of my reach now. I only hope he is in good hands...
And so...
Here I lie, Alone once again...

24th of Mid Summer - the writing is once again neat and properly done as before

I did not enjoy the company of many people at the tavern today, very much to my despair... But I was instead given time to think. I thought mostly about myself and my friend... and found I was right about him. He had changed in his time away.
The bosmer has changed him as well, and not in a good way. He has been developed into a vampire... of sorts, by her. Not one that sucks blood, but instead happiness. He thrives off of bringing joy to other's lives and then watching it dwindle away into nothing, being content that he brought any happiness at all...

But I learned another thing.
In my solitude I found that I would talk to myself, as I was lonely and there was nobody around to engage. And found that the man I spoke with was an entirely different man than that of which I thought I was.. that of which I showed others... As if I had been wearing a mask that was so fool-proof even I believed it... Even I believed I was a good person...

There is no words on the bottom of the page, but there are stains, as if someone dropped a drop of liquid on it in a few places...

There is no date on this page either, and the handwriting seems nothing akin to that of Terrance, instead being more sloppy and unkempt

In my days at the temple I remember the nickname they gave me. It was during our training when we were young and they tested our abilities. First came tests of knowledge, I learned, but never succeeded and so they thought me to be stupid...
I am not stupid... I am sad...
Next came tests of strength. They pitted me against the other boys, I was taller and stronger than any other at the temple, but I lost every fight regardless. I did not want to hurt them.. and so they thought me weak as well, the girls even gave me my nickname... The Gentle Giant.
I am not weak... I am lonely...

25th of Mid Year - The writing is smooth and calmed as before

I met with Elanis today, the girl who I could not tell the race of. Apparently she is bosmer breton. She gave me insight into my relationship with my friend, and so here I come to think and ponder what it means... She told me that I must find what would truly fulfill me. What would make me whole...
This made me again think of what I was. It made me realize what I had become in the time I was separated from my friend.

I am a husk. A soulless shell with a heart of stone. I found only temporary comfort in the enjoyment of others, finding them love, finding them happiness, finding them fulfillment... And so here I find myself with my friend, seeing him for who he truly is, and finding my problem these long few years...

My friend is naught other than me. My heart. The very essence of my compassion and empathy that I hid away from others for so long as to ensure they did not exploit it... It explains why he I took such interest in the bosmer girl, because my heart had warmed to her, and I felt a love... a fulfillment I had not felt since... Well since I was stricken over *the next word is heavily scratched onto the page, as if written with intense anger* her. It also explains why I grew so shy and distant when she was around... I hid myself away from her, for I feared the safety of my heart...

27th of Mid Year - The writing is the usual calm and soft

Somebody called me strong today...

It was not a bad thing, but I have never been called that before. I don't actually recall receiving any compliments in my past...
It made me think of who I am. I am tall, muscular, intimidating, and hard-headed, but that is only what I show to others. I portray myself as the large and powerful healer I am, but that is not who I am... I am weak, soft, and fragile. Easy to break, hard to fix.
It reminds me of my friend soul. How she destroyed it, and how it never truly recovered... Though I have found talk of her easier on the ears. I find forgiveness in the realm of possibility, but I will not forgive her until she seeks proper repentance...
My friends all seem to see me as this tall, strong altmer, but I am not what I seem... I am vulnerable to an attack from the inside, and that is why I let few people see that part of me. For fear they will act as she did...

1st of Sun's Height

I spoke with her today. It was as I expected it to be, of course... She got angry when I opened my mouth and threatened me with the gallows. Some people just don't understand why I'm always so quiet...

On top of this, there is naught but bad news today... My friend Faldir has been overly distraught as of late, no doubt it's to the with that blasted orc he's smitten himself with. And my affairs are none the better, I fear the bosmer girl does not share my feelings for her... Thankfully Redclaw is accustomed to such dealings and has no issue with rejections or false leads, his job is to be one, after all...

I sometimes wish that I could help more than I do. But I am restrained... trapped... nullified... I cannot help the guard who keep the safety of the town because they refuse my help before I can offer it. I harbor no ill feelings towards them, despite what they think, I hold all the guards in very high regard for what they do. Sir Seriduril, for example, has shown his honor to me time and time again. There is only one of them which I despise... Sadly it is also their leader...

And so here I will stay, alone, drinking in the tavern. Until someone feels they've need for me... And I hope they do...

This page is not written in daedric

Come, sit, and allow me to regale you in a pale tale of old
One with none alive, for it to be told...
Tis a story of a man, woman, merchant and crew
Though many would not believe it to be true.
The man, for one, was a strong old lout,
Though he, had nothing to complain about.
The woman, for two, was a beauty of the land,
A gift only worthy of one's strong hand.
The merchant and crew, and innocent bunch,
So soft were they, they could not throw a punch.
The man whom had been hired to protect them so,
Only ran and fled when the bandits came to show...
And so he lived alone, unknowing of what transpired,
He knew only, what he had desired.
Though soon came news from a tiresome courier's heaving:
"Terrance, you lout! They've all gone and stopped breathing!"

So the man ran off once again, his soul dark and bland,
For even he knew, there is no salvation for the damned...

Upon turning the page a handful of closed letters fall out. Further entries of this type will be labeled "Love letter" and will be found here in the journal
(Try listening to sad or classical music when reading these)

Beauty...
Such was the word that appeared whence you came.
I yearned for it's warmth, it's sweet, caring embrace.
But with a heart so fine, even I cannot claim.
So far away, untouched and innocent,
But with simple eyes, not hand, nor action
You strung my soul as if it were instrument.

-T

Love letter

Delicate flower

A flower can only bloom
If held by strong stem,
Just as a tree can only flower
If kept high by mighty trunk.

So fickle, are such things,
So trivial is nature

But a flower, of all things
Is more appreciative,
Is more soft,
Is more vibrant,
Is more gentle,
Than any other dependant figure.

-T

Love letter

I remember when we met
In the small town of Glenview.
The town would always talk
Of how your voice could subdue.

You were alone, but happy
Unlike myself.
The people looked up to you
Which is impressive, for an elf.

I came only for a day
For supplies and for trade
But it were still enough
For your sight to delay.

I tarried not long
My mission in mind,
Until you sang me
That single damn song.

-T

Love letter

So foolish, so silly,
Entirely unexpected
From such a sweet lily.

A flower does not uproot and run,
Nor a loyal companion
Become twisted and undone.

So how goofy must one be
To run all this way for me?

-T

Love letter

Lonely man, sad man,
happy man, glad man,
For you, that man will always be a fan.

So strong as me,
Yet delicate and free
There is not a man
Who would dare touch thee.

The men whom hire me think me strong,
But only you know them to be wrong.

No worries, no doubts, for they have many capable
I only hope my magic be formidable.

-T

Love letter

I stand amongst the ruins of a newly charred caravan,
No soul in sight,
Not guard nor buisinessman.

Stripped clean, like me
No valuables to see.
My only regret, being that I had to flee...

I pray for your safety both day and night,
Fearing what happened even as I write.

I will be stronger next time...

-T

Love letter

I identified a body,
It looked much like yours.
But its face was bruised,
And covered in sores.

It was terrible to see it
In such a wicked pose,
It was my beloved, my flower,
My ever-blooming Rose.

1st of Last Seed

I've found my old letters in the box by the grave. Though I dare not read them lest it remind of the times long past, of my life before Vulkwasten. Not to say it was bad, nor that it brought me discomfort to find them, I was actually rather relieved these pieces of who I used to be remain. Perhaps someone else will find them one day, so that they may feel the joy of which I now abstain. Though for now they will remain safe here in my journal, where not even my own eyes may gaze at them...

Thankfully my memories were not all bad when I came to. I now know why I have such hatred for lady Kashya, this discovery has opened my eyes to a new perspective of what I have become. I hate her not because of who she is, but of who she reminds me of... and also perhaps a bit of who she is. Though it is a rare few who treat me well today, and reasonably so.

2nd of Last Seed

It feels strange to be alone. Not drinking in the corner of the tavern as the music plays and couples dance, not sitting on a ledge watching as the guards patrol, not leaning against a wall and staring at the passersby, but being truly alone...

The only ones near are dead of body, soul, or both. They make terrible company.

Maybe one day there will come someone to speak with me. Truly speak, not offer me a drink, nor speak of themselves, nor offer empty words encased in selfishness. But I have yet to meet such a person in this town. None ask why a high elf has my name, none ask why I cover my face, none ask what I hide beneath my robes, none ask why I act so laughable in the most dire situations, none ask why I play these games with myself that I know I will never win.

Perhaps they only care for themselves, or perhaps they just care not for me.

3rd of Last Seed

My robes always get that terrible green colored stain near the end of the day. If I plan to keep them a proper white I'm forced to clean them every night. Of course it's no hassle, a bit of radiant light can dry the water and clean the dirt without issue, but perhaps it's the smell that bothers people. Warm linen, fluffed and dry, I find no problems with it as it smells naught but clean to me, but others seem to like to keep their distance.

There are many thunderbugs in this part of the Valenwood though. They like me much better than most. Perhaps that's because they're not as smart though... Is it smart to stay away from me? I thought that I could help people, that they'd want my support, that they'd somehow like my company and presence. Sadly though, it seems I'm naught but a bane of happiness, destined to be a harbinger of sadness and ill luck.

I wish there were someone to tell me wrong, but my therapies and magical tricks are limited to heal the body... Not the mind.

5th of Last Seed

Today was nice, I spent it alone. Perhaps it is the constant loneliness which keeps me happy. But then why am I so seeking of friends and company?

I have a feeling I am not like most other people in heart. Most who are sad or lonely will find a friend or lover who can heal their broken heart and mend them back into happiness. I, on the other hand, have only been on a constant decline and am afraid I am too broken for any to be bothered to fix.

Maybe that is why I am happy when I am alone. Because I know that the only person who cares to help me is myself.

6th of Last Seed

I've taken some time to solace myself from the world. In such time I've found it easy to study and contemplate on things. There have been more than a few illusion spells which I've learned, and will most likely come in handy in the times to come. I've only recently read the notice board when I was passing through town, though I was cloaked as to not draw anyone's attention, so it is likely I was not recognized. Not only did I see word of Xithic's reveal as a lycan but also of Theo's as a vampire.

I was good friends with them both, or so I would like to think. I of course knew of both their afflictions, as they made is blindingly obvious, but only Xithic has admitted to it. I will not hunt my friend Xithic, he was the first to welcome me to this accursed town and I will do all I can to ensure his safety despite his lycanthropy. But Theo has yet to show any signs of repentance for what he is, and I have much lower tolerance for such high and mighty vampires who have been pampered on their ego.

I have hunted his type before, it is not difficult to gain the element of surprise and cut them deeper than they imagined possible. Then they flee, as always, and it makes it a simple matter of hunting down a cornered rat. Though he is my friend, I cannot forgive what he has done, and I take it upon myself to mount his head on a pike should no one accomplish the task before me.

It seems I am to drink alone once again...

7th of Last Seed

I only need a little more time. I ask for but a few more days. By this time next week I will be forced back into the world of that town once again. But with just a few more days I can perfect these spells. With layers of illusion stacked on top of my restorative wards I can decieve the weak minded and still have a fail safe in case they fail. It is not like me to do this, to lie and decieve, but I have a feeling Theo would not be foolish enough to wander alone so I will need more than my regular routines to defeat him. One vampire I can handle, but any more than that can quickly become a challenge.

Perhaps Theo is doing this for my own good. With his hunt on my mind, I am no longer alone. He has become my rival, and a rival is some of the best company I've had in a while. Though he problably doesn't even know I'm hunting him, and that is fine. After all, I've become quite accustomed to one sided relationships. That is good.

I'm glad that I wipe my memory of these journals after I write them, it gives a certain ease to my mind even though I may not know it. I wander through the day playing my games and only remember what I have truly become when I lie down to rest at night. That is good.

I envy those who can sleep well at night. I never do, and that will not change tonight.

8th of Last Seed

It's strange, don't you think? How the leaves turn brown and yellow before they fall. Why is it that they lose their vibrant colors and take on something so much darker before their fall? Perhaps itnis because they simply wither and die like the rest of us, but perhaps it is because they no longer feel the need to hide their true colors.

It smells so nice out here. It makes a fine distraction from reality. There are many who were friends to Theo, myself included. Though there are not many who saw him for what he was. He is a man who thinks himself invincible and above all others, that's why I called him Wren's father, I though he might like that. He is an insightful fellow who can see through any mask I use to hide my face, I've never met another who could do that like him. He is an arrogant and angry man, not as bad as some, but still uncaring for the safety of an innocent stranger. This is the primary reason why I hunt. Those who care not for an innocent will recieve as much mercy as they supply. That is good.

My hands are cold. Perhaps they reflect my heart.

9th of Last Seed

Tears no longer flood my eyes in times of sorrow. Instead I am burdened by an unfathomable weight which takes away my breath and drowns me in a sunken place. It's so very dark here.

...

I've hid myself away for good reason, and now people come to me. And for what? To talk, as if they think I can help calm their minds and relieve their fears. I have been trained and conditioned to fight and heal bodily injuries. Injuries of the mind are another matter entirely, yet they still come for my support. Maybe it is just that they need a shoulder to cry on since there is no soul in the town willing to carry their weight.

What they do not know is that I have sought my seclusion so I could learn to first carry my own weight. There is no support for me, or apparently for them either. I am alone, and that is the way I shall remain.

I cannot help them. I cannot even help myself.

...

It has been decided. Not only am I now motivated to hunt by my morals, but the townpeople have turned against my quarry as well, encouraging me to speed my progress before they reach him. In addition the marshall has offered to negate insults to individual who takes his head, perhaps I can negotiate a restraining order as well.

10th of Last Seed

It's a sad day.
I've learned all I can from these books, my remaining time will be spent in practice. I also came upon very troubling information. It would seem that Xithic is better friends with Theo than I expected, I was not aware they had a personal bond and thought they were only temporary allies at a point. Though this does not change my decision, and Xithic has been made aware of that. Thankfully he too decided it would be best if Theo were to die by my hand rather than some greedy mercenary's. When I come back to town I must inquire about Theo's last known whereabouts, and then my hunt will begin. With Xithic's help the process of tracking him will be made significantly easier. I do, though, wish to know why Theo has strayed so far from the path Xithic says he was on. I will enchant a dagger which I will torture him to near death with that is enchanted to steal his magicka as well. In such a state of disrepair he will have no chance to escape, and will be forced to face my questions without running off like the coward he is.

And for once, I write good news down in this journal. Xithic has finally been cared for properly and looks for his cure. This means he will soon be reunited with his beloved, and no longer be a threat to others. I yearn for the sight of such things, it has been so long since I have seen the happiness and love they share.

I will kill Theo, and I will save Xithic.
That is my purpose.

11th of Last Seed

It's cold here. The light no longer warms me. No matter how many layers I take on my body still shivers. It is unending. It is a cold that is not enough to kill me, but is enough to make me wish it was. Why do these thoughts invade my head? It will pass, the cold always passes.

...

There is nothing here for me. I do not receive visitors, and the squirrels and skeevers seem lost. Not even the leaves sway close to me anymore. What is the cause of this? Is it my fault? Have I wronged somebody? Perhaps it is a curse? Or perhaps it is simply all in our mind again.

No, it is a reality I must face. My curse calls me, I must feed it.

19th of Last Seed

It's so interesting what we see. We see this world through our eyes, we see pretty things, ugly things, and terrible things. Though there is so much more that we can't see with our eyes.

I see a man in black and gold, jingling as he walks. He is known commonly as a jester. I see he is happy, a people pleaser, a fine man. But I know better than to trust my eyes. I cannot see what he is, but I can instead look past what we see with our eyes and notice a person far different than what is shown on the skin. I see a concerned man, a nice man, a distracted man, a man who smiles even when he frowns for the sake of others.

I see another man, he wears bright colors, a mask, and bears no weapon other than a staff. Even below the mask a smile is made apparent, his voice is slow and calm, he seems happy, gullible, someone to cheer up a sad heart. But again, it is important to look past what the eyes perceive. This man if much different when he is gazed at with a blind eye. His clothes have turned hard and dark like iron, his smile has turned to an unending glare. He is angry, and cold of heart. He cares nothing for the people he helps, he only does it to help his own selfish person. He is no man in white, he is no healer, he is no sanctuary, and he brings no salvation. He is a monster. He knows I see him for what he is and mocks me, mimicking my movements, following my gestures and facial expressions, even going so far as to entirely mimic my visage and surround himself in that silver frame, behind that clear glass.

The man behind the mirror is not me, I must get a knew mirror. This one is broken.

20th of Last Seed

I can hear it. I can see it. Sometimes I can feel it, too. The people who I've seen, the pain they've felt, the menageries of things I could do but didn't. I have seen so many people, I know their stories, and I can do nothing to help them. Only write them in this forgotten journal where none will find their truth, nor mine.

I know a story of a man named Hinir. A strong, young man from the Alik'r who I met seeking passage to Cyrodil to meet a bosmeri woman who he'd fallen in love with. I could not deny such a request and kept him safe on his journey. When he finally met the girl I left the two alone, to give them the quality time they so deserved. What I did not take in to account was the vast wealth he had brought from his home to appease the girl for his time gone. He had given everything. He sold his house, gave up his possessions, and threw away the entirety of his old life to be reunited with this lovely womer. He was a kind, compassionate, strong, and honorable man. He could have never suspected something so vile to take place that day. And so it was there that Hinir was gutted by the hand of his greedy beloved who had given everything to please, as I sat hidden behind a rock, paralyzed by the shock of the loss of my friend. It was there that his body was looted by her band of thugs who she later killed too, and it was there that Hinir's story ended with no witnesses to care.

I know a story of a man named Kazato'Dar. A young, talented man who was raised as a sheltered kitten in a small waterside town. It did not take long for little Kaz to stumble upon another young kitten, though. She, unlike him, was free and unchained. A pirate's daughter at sea, who introduced the young man to the music he so enjoyed. Life took an unexpected turn when she entered his life. No longer did little Kaz see black and white, but instead vibrant colors and lively landscapes. No longer did he hear the mulling of crowds and stomping of feet, but instead the beautiful music of the young girl's voice and the chirping of the spring birds no matter the time of year. Kaz was happy. Though one fateful night his kitten did not return, her boat was sunken and her body was drowned. The guards did not even have the guts to put her out of her misery early, and instead allowed her a slow, painful death at the bottom of the river. Thankfully Sadly though, our young khajiit lived to tell the tale. He went to a town called Vulkwasten in his travels and met many fine people who he was able to make happy through the music his beloved once taught him. All the while suffering and enduring his eternal curse within his mind. He met a fine man, who helped him realize his fate, and his curse. It was here Kaz was given realization of his death. It was here that Kazato'Dar's story ended with no witnesses to care.

I know a story of a man named Tahromir. A fine young man who was raised as a warrior for a well-renowned god. In one of his many travels he happened upon a young womer named Rose, who lulled and wooed the poor young boy with her voice of dreams. They fell in love, and ran off together, seeking the adventure and livelihood of a free bird in the summer wind. Tahromir was happy. Though it was not long lived. They were with a caravan, escorting it as guards, and were ambushed without warning by a merciless band. The bandits killed all the kneeled and shot those who ran, Tahromir searched desperately for his loved one, but the smoke and cascade of arrows was not an easy sight to see through. Instead Tahromir ran, reluctantly abandoning his love in hopes she would find him again, and they would live happily once again as in every other love story. Though he was not so lucky, as instead of receiving word from his love, he received the sight of her mutilated body. So corrupted and twisted he couldn't even recognize the face. The only thing approving his doubts was her mark, the same Rose which they had received on their skin when they first met. It was here Tahromir was given realization of his death, and his curse. It was here that Tahromir's story ended with no witnesses to care.

Such are few of the stories which my mind holds hostage, reliving their pain, remembering their suffering. But there is no one here to relieve me of my burdens. There are no witnesses to care.

21st of Last Seed

It is easier to see without my eyes. People are no longer able to hide behind the masks and facades they once did. I can see past their tricks, and instead look at who they truly are. Sadri seemed disappointed at my illusion, perhaps I need more practice? In better news I have been more capable of seeing things as they are, rather than as they look.

I can see people for what they look like beneath the skin without my eyes.
I can smell the scent of a person's soul, rather than the fragrance they show their peers.
I can feel the emotions of oneself through simple touch, rather than the texture of their skin.
And all at one simple cost, or rather two.

I see a man at war with himself. Donned in his ever-lasting armor and standing stout in the face of the ever-approaching tides of chaos that sprouted from his own past. He fights on, clinging to the life he has been given, but knows that this enemy was of his own creation. Victory is in sight though, there is a light at the end of the waves he constantly fights, a girl, a future. But it is so far away... He doubts he will make it.

I see a shy man. A man who has lost his purpose. One that enjoys the fickle things in life. Art, nature, and love. A lonely man, though. He cannot speak with anyone, for none dare come close to him. And so he has built a strong barricade around his gentle self to protect it from the world, in the process only deepening his lonesomeness. There are so very few I have seen him open his palisade drawbridge to. I wish I could be one of them.

I see a girl, injured and scarred. She is a small, pitiful thing. One can only feel sad for the husk that remains of what she must have been. Her battles have been fought in vain, and her scars from such wars are endless in quantity. She is strong, though, and willing to endure as long as she must. But she does not know what it is that she waits for, she has lost her purpose and is left only to sulk behind her iron walls that she has encased herself with. Her skin reminds me of what I used to be. She is the reason for my blindness.

I see a young girl, innocent and naive. She is happy, though humble and respecting. There are many in this town who smell of evil and a tortured past, but she carries with her the scent of spring blossoms, floating through the sunlit sky. She shakes, perhaps from being nervous. Am I scary to her? Perhaps she too can see what I am beneath the skin. She called me a Lord, yet her stature should be far above mine.

I see a girl made of stone, with an arrow in her heart. She had constructed a fortress so impenetrable even she would not be able to open it to others. Though there is a weakness in her. If one were able to get close and remove the arrow in her heart, or even touch it, they may be able to break her free from this prison she has constructed even if only temporarily. Sadly though, I am unable to gain such proximity.

Such are what the eyes of this blind man can see. Such is what hides beneath the skin.

22nd of Last Seed

I spoke with Rax and Kaz this morning. We all share a similar bond, though Rax may not know it. One that surpasses any family or friendship one could hope to find. One of a deeper understanding and empathy. One of a bond made through suffering and harrow, that each of us have been made to endure. We are not like each other, us three. A blind healer, a happy bard, and a quiet spymaster, but nonetheless we are all of the same seed in the manner that we share the same fate and must come to the realization that we are some of the only few who will suffer as we do. We are a bond further than blood, for what we bleed is not crimson.

I was not myself tonight. Or was I? I can no longer tell who I am. Whether I have become a blind old fool or an armored goliath who's only purpose is to abuse those less fortunate than him I know not. I only know that whichever person I am, it will appeased those which I fear. Whether I be mending the broken or making them, my curse will feed all the same.

People smell different without the aid of my eyes to tell me what it is they are trying to mimic. I no longer smell the perfumes of the pampered rich, such as the Lady Hlorietta. Nor do I smell the stench of the unkempt poor, such as the unfortunate Miss Lola. Instead I am given the very essence of who they are, the smell of their soul if you will, and not many people are given a good fragrance.

I see a cowering man, who smells of ash. Crouched in a corner, surrounded by black apparitions which kick and tease him to no end. There are people behind these apparitions but they do not help, only watch as the man is beaten and tortured. The man does not cry, he did in the past, but after a while one runs out of tears to shed. He knows not his purpose, he only sulks and endures such pains. There is ample opportunity to fight back these ghost of darkness, yet he does not lift a finger to stop his torment. He thinks himself to deserve it. Perhaps he does.

I see a lady in white, who smells of a spring breeze. She walks amongst evil, in a valley of darkness, shedding only a faint light to those around her. She converses with demons, dark people with no hearts, who see the light in her and try to take it as their own. It makes her scared, nervous, timid. She is outnumbered, and they are far stronger than her. She does not run though, she fights on, trying to find her sense of normalcy in this dark place. Why won't she leave? Why doesn't she find another who shares her light so that they may become bright as the sun? Instead she wanders in the night helpless, scared, and alone. I wish I could help her, but I am the king of such demons.

I see a mother, who smells of sour sweets. She bears no children, but is instead a mother to all she speaks to. Caring, loving, and compassionate to those who dare contact her. She bears a curse, and with it a story. Though it is not my place to tell such a tale. When I am long gone and this journal is found, you may ask her yourself. She is humble and sweet, but not enough to shed light over the darkness which she tends to. She is unaware of the beasts she so calmly befriends because she does not care to learn who they truly are. She, unlike me, uses her eyes. Perhaps she is selfish for it? Perhaps she is simply too busy? Perhaps she does not truly care, as a mother should.

When people see light they think of safety, but are they truly brightened? Or is it simply an illusion to calm their mind? If I cannot see such illusory temptations I can no longer be fooled by them, but instead sit in a cold darkness for the rest of my days. Is it in this void that many people try to escape. It is in this void many people have become corrupt and tainted, constantly distracting themselves from the truth that has been thrust upon them. It is in this void that I am home.

24th of Last Seed

There are three in particular, who talk above the others. They say they make themselves visible to those with eyes, but I believe this to be a lie as not a single one of the three have been mentioned to me by anyone else.

The first was Orion, a funny and strong sounding man who seemed to act as a leader in his life. Though his story takes many turns for the worse through countless mutinies and betrayals.

The second was Brutus, a strong and honorable warrior in his life. He was revered by all, and always sought the strong to challenge his strength. Though his strength was no blessing, but rather a curse. He became too powerful for even the mightiest heroes in the realm and people began to fear his strength. He was no longer revered but instead outcast, hated, and isolated.

The third was Craven, a small and cunning man with a rat-like voice who served as an assassin and silver-tongued trickster in his life. He thrived on his countless mounds of gold and blood from his dirtied deeds, but only when it was too late did he realize the consequence.

They whisper to me, telling me of what their dead eyes see when mine cannot. Though sometimes they lie, sometimes they don't get along, and sometimes they try to advise me.

Brutus tells me Estre is small and weak compared to me, that I could crush her if I wanted. But I know she is nice. She has a kind heart that is able to see the taint in my own, that is why she hates me so. Craven tells me that she is close, all I need do is swing and he will guide my fist to hit it's mark, that he will act as the eyes of a blind man beating a monstrous woman. He always falls silent after a simple decline. That is good.

They say that they are bound to me, that they cannot escape for I have inhabited their home and taken it as my own. They say that even though I am blind the people hate me, they mock me, and they despise me. I am glad I cannot see such things, and I am glad I cannot cry about them. Brutus tells me it similar to a pond of fish, where I am the shark. The shark eats the smallest, and pushes around all the others despite his best efforts, causing a mass hatred of the shark when he is only trying to survive. It is not the shark's fault he is a predator, nor the largest in the pond, but nonetheless the fish hate him and they want nothing more than him to be gone. These voices sometimes lie to me, but they also tell many truths. Perhaps this is one of them.

They burn my ears in anticipation, they are preparing to welcome a new soul home.

25th of Last Seed

Normally at this time I would ramble on about my beliefs on why I torture myself and why I deserve it, but something strange has happened today. Multiple, actually.

I awoke in the clinic, though I was not injured and I could not move. In addition, everything was a certain shade of blue and Sadri was to be seen wandering about the room. I tried calling out to him but I was only able to whisper, as my voices were before. Afterwards, my vision went dark once again and I had a dream were the voices manifested as physical, yet they were blurred, and some were many things at once. Craven told me I had seen through his eyes before, only in this state of my conscious could he do so. He was manifested as a dagger, a crow, and a red-eyed raven above all. Brutus was next, he told me Craven and him were starting to get along, that is good. He was manifested as a horned figure, an axe, and a green-eyed bear above all. Orion came third, he was sorry for what he did, but he saw no other way. I forgive him, he seems to only wants what is best for me. He was manifested as a crown, a sword, and a blue-eyed elk above all. I think perhaps this incident had to do with the sedative Sadri had given me. Perhaps he thinks my voices to be my enemy, that they are what drives me 'insane' as the people call it, but he is mistaken. They are my friends, I trust them. They would never lie to me.

Rasad escaped today. It is hard for me to see him, or smell him for that matter. I instead had to rely on them to see him for me. Their word of him was strange, they said he seemed lost. That he was scared, alone, without a familiar face or friend around he was in a desperate panic. I wished to inquire further but Lady Amae and Lady Wren arrested him in short time and decided to lock him up in the cell. At least I am not barred from speaking with him there... That reminds me, I am not allowed here in the clinic either. Hopefully the guard will understand it was not of my doing.

They also seemed interested in Lady Disenyl. The girl who has stolen the heart of J'Varr, and who I have met only recently. Perhaps they see something in her I cannot. It is hard to see someone you have only just met. Especially for me. Though Gilyn has proved himself a fine friend time and time again, though I know him so little. He looks much like Lady Amae, and I think they would make a fine couple. He has even invited me to the merriments tomorrow, though in this shape I am unsure if I will be able to make it in time.

Things are looking on the upside, even for them. It is a nice change. I have found fine companions who will not leave a knife in my back for a considerable amount of time, and my friends have found a newcomer as well. All are welcome to this house, though none are permitted to leave.

26th of Last Seed

(This part of the journal seems to be written hastily, in an angry manner with sharpened words akin to daggers)
I see a vile creature, that smells of poison and rot. Rolling in the bodies of those that it has killed, it revels in the tortured and corrupted souls of that which it has sown. It breathes the stench of death and foams at the mouth as it's bulbous and twisted figure waltzes around the sea of corpses, searching for any poor souls that still cling to life. It manages to find one, poor and broken. Weak and trusting. Good and innocent. And then it strikes, it's green horrid tendrils reaching out of it's ooze-covered form and strangling the last essence of life from this suffering soul surrounded by daggers that only strike the back. Some would say it was mercy to end such life, but not when the prey does not die and instead lives on from such an experience. This beast does not kill, for even it knows that is wrong. Instead it torments, tortures, afflicts, lacerates, betrays, persecutes, and shows 'mercy' to it's victims so that they may live in this sea of writhing flesh and bone, forever stomped beneath the calloused hooves of the monstrosity.
(The writing returns to normal)
I thought I was to be king of the demons that infest this plane, for only the most inhumane and horrid can lead the unending hordes of taint across the lands. Perhaps I now have a contender.

Such is what can be seen by eyes of this blind man. Orion tells me my vision is skewed by negligence and personal affections, that what I see is not what exists. He is wrong, my eyes can no longer lie to me, that is why I shun them. Thankfully though, not all of what I see is so terrible.

I see a smiling man, skin white as snow, that smells of frosty air as does in winter times. He wanders about with a smile and gleaming expression, even shining his own light unto the darkness surrounding him. The darkened people that he watches over as a sentinel over he cares for, even if he knows them not. They beg him for even a shimmer of the light he has to offer, but he can do naught but ignore them. He knows such doings would bring him into the darkness they so desperately try to escape. He is a good man, but cold. His heart has turned stone, yet he is still able to shed warmth. He alone, he is content, he is unloved.

I see a lone wolf, scarred and torn, that smells of a mother's embrace. She is a mother wolf, bearing a litter in her womb, but the father has gone off and died on a hunt. She cares for many of the packs pups, doing her best to help them in any way she can. Yet they do not appreciate her, they see her as nothing more than a lonely mother, who was irresponsible and is unworthy of the gifts she was given. She is conflicted of mind, but remains happy of heart. That is good.

I wish to speak with Rasad further. Perhaps after some time my vision will finally clear, and I will see him too. I wish to speak with Terath further, but he has been on vacation for some time now, maybe his caravan was delayed for weather? I do not know, I am sure he is fine. He is a good man.

The smaller voices are naught but endless whispers now. Orion tries to calm them, but they seem restless. Perhaps they see something coming that I do not. Perhaps they are afraid. Perhaps they are glad.

27th of Last Seed

Is it true what they say? Until now I have only believed them to mix truths with lies to try and deceive me into thinking things were askew from what they were. Until now I have doubted their trust and betrayed their gifts to me. I now know that they have never told me a lie and never will. This is terrible news of course, for it means our past miscommunications were a fault of my own doing. It means everything that they have told me was naught but the truth. It means that what they've seen in the people has been even better than my sight has judged through.

It came as a realization to us both really. All it took was a simple few words from a specific beast in the forest. They found that giving it a second chance at life was wrong, and I saw that my original worries were affirmed. Is it really so easy to lie to a blind old man? You would think it morally wrong to do so. What reason could possibly validate such action? I no longer need to see through such lies, for I no longer have sight of them in the first place.

This means that everything they've told me is truth, of course. The hatred of the people is no longer something I can deny. Their worries, their hate, their negligence, their annoyance. No longer are they things I can forget happened, but they are now things that have happened. Estre's conflicts and utter hatred of me is now something I can see. Wren's overwhelming aura of hate and discrimination towards me is now undeniable. Amae's fear at the sight of me is no longer something I can brush off. There are so many things of which I now know, and none of them are something I would've liked to.

With their sight and undying loyalty I can see better than I ever could have hoped for. My vision is clear, even without my eyes. They are my friends, they are my companions, they are my family, they are my eyes.

We see a nice young girl, who smells of lush grass. She cares for many people, though lacks purpose in life. At her home she is happy, in fact, she is happy most anywhere she goes. A bright light that shines down upon any who look at her, drowning away any darkness that may consume them. She kills these demons in an endless battle without even knowing. She is innocent, she is fragile, she is young. Today she even tried to turn her light towards the darkness within us, but sadly some are too far gone to have salvation in sight. Some are cursed to this void for as long as we live, and only exist to suffer in it.

We see a sad mother, a dead baby clutched in her arms, with an alluring yet cautionary smell. It is an odd scent she has. One would think it horrid and turn away at the reaction, but at the same time it is alluring and reminiscent of one's deepest desires. She is an odd thing, difficult to see without blur, but still easily visible one with such eyes as mine. She cries so much, her tears unending. She has come to terms with her loss long ago, yet still clutches the long dead body in her arms and weeps.

Such sights are given to me by my friends. They no longer call me Terrance, or any other descriptive term to identify me on a friendly base, but instead they call me 'Father'. Perhaps this world of my mind which constantly traps these tortured souls is not some place which the damned go to suffer in silence. Perhaps it is a creation all of my own. Perhaps these are my creations, these are my children, this is my home.

28th of Last Seed

I try to help them. I try to be kind. I try to be nice. I try to act ignorant so that they have a proper fool to laugh at, but they do not even take joy in that. I have lived my whole life attempting to bring joy to people, and yet these ones harbor no laughter, no happiness, no joy. Only hatred, and that hatred being towards me. I wish I could continue my works, but it seems that no matter how much I give, how much I sacrifice, how much I try, they will never be happy with me. I only want to help.

It does not matter who they are, or the warmth of their heart. They hate me all the same. Sadri fears me, Wren hates me, Estre despises me, Adsomar loathes me, Ali detests me, Keys abhors me. Even young Amae has grown to dislike me. I do not know what I do wrong. I am simply unknowing, is that so wrong? I dropped my bottle of rum on purpose only a few hours ago, I stumbled about and tripped over rocks to create as pitiful sight I could out of an old blind man, yet even with so many onlookers I was simply ignored. You would think it only right and easy to pick up a bottle for a flimsy old creature, but only Rax stepped in to help when I annoyed him to the point where he had no choice to do otherwise.

Lady Kashya, Sir Seriduril, Miss Lucia, Xithic, Thelin, young Cirilin, Lady Bethany, Doctor Ali, Lady Estre, Adsomar, Lady Wren, Miss Hlor, young Keys, even little Lady Amae. Why do they hate me so?

Sadri has been given information on my condition. I know he will keep it a secret, and I hope he will not let it affect him. It has only worsened with time, after all. It's quite often that I bleed, or face such pains in my head. Perhaps I should do something to help myself, but I never do. I only wish that someone would help me instead, but deep down I know that nobody would dare ever do such a thing for me, no matter how little it may be. Instead I will rot and decay alone by myself, in hopes that one day someone will care for my suffering.

Perhaps someone will come. Perhaps I will remain alone. Perhaps I simply deserve to die.

3rd of Hearthfire

It is difficult for words to express such sensations. The anger, the rage, the pain, the joy, the confusion, the denial, and of course the realization of it's existence. I should not be angry, it tampers with my ability to judge properly. Emotions are no good, not good at all. Perhaps I should rid myself of those as well. I think it easier to express what I feel through stories, for nobody wants to read some long book about feelings. That is boring.

He was a strapping young boy, the pride of his family. Tall, strong, handsome galore. He was loved by every girl the village could offer, and every boy in the village envied him so. His mother was kind, a loving woman. His father was strong, a beast of a man. And he was the perfect mixture of both, containing a kind heart, and a solid form to compliment it. It was no wonder there were so many who loved him. Though he had so few friends, and though the people adored him, he could do naught right. Everything he touched would soil it's purpose. He would draw water from a well, only to reel dry dirt for the throats of the thirsty. Everything changed though, when he met his beloved flower. She was nothing below perfection, with a beauty and caring heart that was adored by all who she met. One could even say she was more popular than the boy himself. Together she gave him the most perfect life one could dream of. So why does he cry? She was the jewel of the realm, the finest maiden in the land with an unending love and loyalty to him. So why did he kill her? The people forgave him, forgot of his sins, and left him to the perfect life he had always had without issue. So why does he run?

Another voice joins the chorus.

5th of Hearthfire (The writing seems inconsistent and written at different intervals)

Damn that man. He is too hard-headed. I have no idea how he survived so long in life. Might as well have simply told Usil about the temple too, giving away our knowledge like that. Maybe he sees something in her that I do not. He is the one with eyes, after all.

Maybe I ought to trust them more. They haven't done anything to show me intent of lying or anything close to betrayal. They are simply like children, young and ignorant. They do not know that what they do is wrong.

Good good, that is good.

Hush, sweet child. Your mother is close.

The night is dark, and full of wonders. Why not go out and seek them?

Keep her away, too close, too nice. Very good she is, too nice, wouldn't be good here. A guard, not liked around these parts. Could mean trouble, too nice too nice. Innocent, untouched, forgotten of all scars, too nice, too good. Dark tendrils that twist and burn at the sight, very good, that is good. Too nice.

Smells just like her. Like her? Couldn't be. Unlike it. Nothing like her. It's unwanted. Not needed Desired. Too good to be true. Such ignorance is bliss. Ugly, horrid, traitorous. Caring. Evil, not good. So sweet. A voice of nothing akin. A heart of something true. Smelly, ugly, rambling. Unknowing. Not good. Not advised. Not known. Not clear.

We've found it, it's here. She's here. My eyes have seen her, so they are no longer needed. My nose has smelled her, so it has become obsolete. There is nothing left for us. There is something missing. It is all we need, all you need. We have missed it, I long for it so. We have what we came for. We must go. That is good. No more time. Only one thing left. Cannot dally, no longer delay. Lest you'll never outlive your stay.

Where is her voice?

Young boy, where is your courage at?
You are not cowering crow, nor skittering rat.

So puff out your chest, and hold your chin high,
for your foe is none the wiser to know who will die.

When there is love, there is music. There is dance, and there is company. There is happiness, and distraction.

Some people dance for all eternity. They close their eyes and descend into a musical bliss, always surrounded by the attentiveness of their caring beloved. They do not fear, nor suffer, nor contemplate, nor even think. They only enjoy. Enjoy the magnificent music, the warmth of their partner, the realization that there is someone who is willing to love them as they love themselves.

But then, the music stops. One's eyes will open to see an empty ballroom, with a cold and abandoned floor. There will be no music, no warmth, and no dancing to be had.

So one must surely realize that things would be better, would they have simply remained ignorant.

Thus, ignorance is bliss.

Allow me to regale you with the tale of young Nilian. A young boy, newly set on his own. Having only before lived on his family farm, the young boy aspired to be a hero; an adventurer and legend known by all people in the realm. More importantly though, loved by them.

Young Nilian wanted nothing more than someone to love, who was capable of returning such affection to him. Some may call it a fool's journey to go such great lengths for so little, or for nothing at all. Some may call it childish to go on a great quest to win one's heart, but Nilian had dreamed of winning the hand of no princess trapped in a dragon infested tower. No, young Nilian humbly wished for a nice farm girl, a peasant even, but one who had a strong enough heart to hold the weight of his own.

He came from humble beginnings, and longed for a humble end. A not so valiant task, but one worthy of a young loveless boy such as he. So he set off, towards the largest city in sight looking for adventure with no weapons or armor apart from a simple hand axe.

Of course, he made it to the city and in a streak of what you may see as luck, he turned into a true hero. Though he did not lose sight of his task. No, young Nilian had already amassed a large wealth, armor, and weaponry fit for a king, but had yet to find a single girl who took interest in him. Now do not be mistaken, Nilian was not ugly nor undesirable in any stances. He was now akin to your strong young prince in shining armor, yet none whole dare ask for his company. It was as if they feared him.

He would be met by hospitality and kindness, but any attempt at romantics would be met with naught but coldness and ignorance by the people. So Nilian saw only one thing to do; to take up arms and take on a quest to give him glory none could oppose. If none would willingly grant him what he had worked so hard for, his only option was to force them to give it to him, for after such a grant task was completed by him alone the people would have no choice but to offer him any woman of his liking.

He met many young girls in his time there, some had even led him to believe they harbored feelings for the young hero, but all were naught in the end. One girl in particular caught his eye, though she reluctantly turned him away at every bout. She was known as Iriel, a young peasant girl who was a local sheep herder's daughter. She was no princess to be sure, not even to be called attractive by many man's standards, what with greased hair, dirtied face, near malnourished form, and boring brown eyes to match her uncomplementing pale rags. But our hero Nilian was terribly infatuated with the young girl nonetheless, and was hard set to earn her hand through his great mission.

Though his grant mission was not to slay a dragon, nor massacre an army, but instead to kill a man. A man known only locally as The Accursed. He was well equipped and of highest morale, and the people made well to warn him of The Accursed's silver tongue, for he did not fight with sword and shield but instead with words. For truly, the keen people of this village had discovered this lurking darkness' secrets. For what The Accursed's purpose was, was to consume the souls of all he could trick into willingly offering themselves to him. With this in mind, Nilian set off with the image of Iriel still fresh in his mind to guide him to victory as it always has before. Though this time, it was terribly different.

Nilian had searched this cursed labyrinth of vine and thorn for what seemed like days, chasing a dark, smiling, heinous apparation that led him ever closer to center of this accursed maze. And then when he finally reached the clearing, in the middle stood the true form of the ghost he had ran after for what seemed like forever. A tall man, strong and healthy, concealed entirely by blackened robes aside from his wicked face. He was adorned with a most terrifying visage, a mouth stretched too far into a sharpened smile, with eyes so dark as to match his robes that seemed to ooze a red fog, as if it were tears of blood. Nilian had not bothered to rest during his travels through the maze, he was too concerned with the fate of Iriel to worry of his own safety and so he was now left drained and tired from his long journey. He could not even bring himself to charge the man anymore, not to mention even hold his sword up. But The Accursed did not capitalize on this; he did not pull a blade and slit the young man's throat in his exhaustion. No, he instead set a hand on Nilian's shoulder and showed what seemed like empathy in a vision to the young hero.

It was then all so clear to Nilian. Iriel had not turned him away because he was not desirable, or because she was fearful of him, or any other reason you may think. It was now seen that she had become infatuated with another boy. Weaker, dishonourable, cowardly, and small compared to young Nilian. But nonetheless she loved him. Despite the fact he had broken her heart twice over, robbed her father, and married into a more wealthy family she became much to distracted to even want to entertain Nilian's thoughts of love for her. The Accursed had shown Nilian the truth, and the truth had hurt him far more than death would have. His love, the one he had used as motivation for this quest, the one he chose as the only one able to ever bring him happiness again, was simply in love with another man and was too selfish to even consider him despite his deeds.

The Accursed saw opportunity in this depression. He offered young Nilian another life. In a new home. A place where he could meet other women and men, rejected like him, but all come together in harmony. A place he could live out his eternal fantasy with Iriel, or find another that woud be more than willing to care for his shattered heart should he care for hers. Though Nilian was not stupid, he knew such a place would not be offered without a terrible price. And right he was. The Accursed told him in this new home he would be forced to leave this old world behind, permanently. But that price is not so steep when there is nothing left here for young Nilian, having failed his ultimate task. He weighted his options, attempt to kill The Accursed despite his lack of strength physical and mental, or "come home" as The Accursed called it. And he ultimately decided that this "home" could not be much worse than living on with the truth he had come to know.

And so Nilian died. His soul was taken into the pool of other eternally tormented spirits trapped within the grasp of The Accursed, and he was forced to live the rest of eternity reliving every moment he remembered of Iriel, up to the last and most horrifying realization. As for Iriel, she lived the rest of her days a slave, as one would have it. For the very same man she had loved so much, though her love did not count for much when she was killed as food for his guard dogs during a famine.

And thus, Nilian's heroic deeds were lost in time and his name was forgotten by history. Though The Accursed would never forget the torment he had endured so valiantly.

Thus, it is a fools quest to search for love, for love is simply an illusion. A false excuse for something more than greed.

A circus. Yes, that is a fine way to describe it. A fun, exiting, remarkable place of wonders. A place of amazing feats of physical prowess and psychic ability that would blow the minds of even the greatest mages. Some bend their bodies like parchment, some create quakes with their mighty steps, some draw power from a far greater unknown all for the enjoyment of the crowd. All of these people are different, but all of them are family. And all of them share the same fate.

Though some children are not so amused by these lands of magic. Some are actually quite fearful... As though they are able to see through the shallow veil that the tents hide in their most secret corners. As if these few people are actually able to see the monstrous things that are done beneath the awe-inspiring circus galore.

However in some ways, it is also unlike an ordinary circus. An ordinary circus does not actually hide dark secrets behind it's walls. An ordinary circus does not have man-eating fools who hunt down stray children. An ordinary circus is not composed of murderers and haunted by scores of tormented souls kept at bay. Only this circus contains such horrors.

In this circus, only the finest entertainment is provided. Only the best service is rendered. An onlooker would nearly go insane with the chaos and beauty unfolding in front of them. The shapely women flying through the air, the gargantuan behemoths fighting below, the handsome men performing feats never seen before, the colors and lights flashing in every corner of view, the pounding of the drums shaking the earth, the deafening music invading one's mind, the utter loss of all control and rhythm. Such beauty in such chaos.

And of course, all performers wear a delicate mask. Peculiar, but simple. A wide smile, portraying enough happiness to last a lifetime, with squinted eyes and flawless white teeth. One would never suspect them of the terrible things they've done... until they took off the mask. For beneath these masks the true performer lies, each with a contorted, horrifying visage of their own. The women cry tears of blood, the men dawn crooked smiles longer than their mouths stretch filled with jagged razors, the artists suffer with a disfigured maw encasing their eternally terrified masque. Such faces would only strike fear in any onlookers heart. Even the bravest of men could not help but shudder at such horror.

Children need not fear a circus, for they harbor no hindrances. They need only fear this one, and all of it's inhabitants. This circus... This home for the accursed.

A child must be kept warm.

Even a heartless, vile, and scarred beast would go out of her way to secure the safety of her soft newborn. A gift, is all it was. A simple thing really. A pair of ramshackle crafted hare mitts. For it was not the item, nor it's purpose it was made to fulfill that matters. The warmth they bring is due to the pieces it was given in it's making. The very same pieces intended to be given to her child.

So is such a small sacrifice not worth the great rewards reaped?

A gifted child is one I make out to be safe. Though a child left in the cold can only be made more accustomed to my home. A mother must soon ask herself: Is she so fit to bear this child? Or should she pass the burden onto a more suiting overseer?

A wise mother keeps her children warm. So what kind of mother would dare leave them in the cold?

A new man was found stumbling alongside the riverbank. I am a good man. I approached the poor fellow and asked what his purpose on this solemn day was to be made. He responded kindly: "I seek my past, buried along these sundered stones." He was no warrior, nor priest nor even beggar. He was a simple man donned in simple cloth, with no house crest nor piece of gold to his name. He was a kind fellow, happy and naive. I am a kind man. Though I could not contain my own curiosity into this commoner's search, and so I asked him why he sought his past so fervently. "My beloved has come back to me, but I am a changed man. I wish to remember who I was, so that she may learn to love me again." An odd answer from this odd man, to be sure. I am a caring man. I asked him yet another pressing question, to find that if she was his beloved, should she not love him for who he is? He gained a solemn look, and made it clear to me that the topic wrestled unease within him. "She loves my mask. One of which I can no longer doff." And so the man made himself busy once again, clambering through the softens rocks beneath his feet, searching for a past he did not know of. I, however, recognized this man, and I now found recognition in the mask that had been eternally plastered over his facade. I am a lying man. This was no man, but a manifest of something in my own past. This was the man I made from my mask. He was the happiness I had fabricated into wood, and thrown over my visage. He was the joy I had lost, and drew anew from parchment. I am a terrible man. I knew now he would not find a past that would lead him to happy life he dreamed of with his newfound beloved. I had made this fellow in an image far too astray of my own, but the hands that craft a tool cannot help but imprint it.

He was the man made of paper, searching for the fire beneath the rocks.

Hunger. Greed. Envy. Need.
Such promises are often kept, driven by the blind desires of mortal opportunity.
Happiness. Fulfillment. Recognition. Love.
Such promises are often placed in sullied hands, never meant to come undone.
No starving man would dare pass free bread to sate his hunger. No poor man could resist the opportunity to become a king. No ugly man could turn away the chance to become the most revered hero in the land. So why is it so wrong to indulge in such primitive pleasures? These values are downcast and disdained for they lead to an end that those of power will forever fear. Pray, think of it. The strong should not fear the weak for their promises of greatness. The weak should fear the strong. Such is the way forever taught to children of every generation: that their purpose is to become something greater than their predecessor, something that they will never come to be. In this way, children are supplied with a false hope of greatness. That they may grow up to be a figure far more diligent than their caretakers. Such are lies. For it is only a rare chance that a child can be destined for greatness, when in reality the majority of the little naive babes are destined for naught but impact of death.
It is a hard truth to see, that children are destined to die from the moment they are born. Disgusting, evil, villainous, some might call it. But it is truth, and truth is often hidden for good reason.
All it takes to tip the balancing scale is a strong fist to push it down or lift it up, but none dare stand against the judgement that awaits those who try and intervene in their divine plans. So a more subtle approach is sometimes needed to achieve the task one sets out to do.
They will send pawns of war to litter their battlefields in an attempt to bring together their people and unite against their sworn enemy, driving hundreds of innocents to a manufactured death of cunning design. So I ask, why not clean the battlefields? They will send their adoring fans to blade-filled boxes where their entrails will be discovered by only their least committed fans, in a terrible attempt to fill them with love. So I ask, why not dismantle the boxes?

So many are destined for this inevitably horrid future, so I ask again: Is it so wrong to indulge in such primitive pleasures?

All things must feed.
A leaf feeds from the warmth of the sun. A man does not pity the leaf.
An antelope feeds from the cold stores of a leaf. A man does not pity the antelope.
A lion feeds from the flesh of an antelope. A man does not pity the lion.
The earth feeds from the carcass of a lion. A man does not pity the earth.
So why would a man pity me?

A man may pity the sun's rays for being sucked into oblivion. A man may pity a leaf for being consumed by an antelope. A man may pity an antelope for dying as food for the lion. A man may even pity the lion for being unworthy to be food for anything else.
So why would a man pity me?

A man feels pity for prey, not predator. It is wrong to feel pity for a villain, and right to feel empathy towards their victims. This is why a hero would find it so easy to slay a villain and claim their deceased head in the name of righteousness. This is why children's stories are often ended kindly, to show the youth that there is no wrong in harming evil. It is improper to feel sympathy for the vile.
So why would a man pity me?

Good and evil are polar opposites, so one must find it easy to distinguish between the two. Sadly, there is a very large area in between that can passively blur one's vision towards an inclination. So many lie here in this area of grey, between the red sea and blue sky. But some take commitment and portray themselves in blinding blue robes, or all-consuming red armor. So I must ask, is it not easy to see what is evil? Good is charity, kindness, love, peace. Evil is chaos, harm, emptiness, distraught, anger. None other than the most vile spirits dare wish for evil to exist, it only survives through those who are dark of heart, and those who passively create it through their grayed moralities. Evil is wrong.
So why would a man pity me?

For a man feels pity for the unknown. For fear it is good.

He has been granted all of his wishes.
A solemn boy, with no places he wishes to go. No people he wishes to meet. No person he wishes to be. For he has already done all such things.

Born a regular man, with regular parents, of regular wealth. This man is no special person in particular, save for one uncommon trait: Any wish he will ever make, will be bestowed unto him in full. He need only ask, and he shall receive. Some would foolishly mistaken such a boon as a blessing, when in reality it is naught but a curse. Imagine it. You need not go to the market to purchase your foods, you need not meet the people and innkeepers there willing to charismatic-ally try and sell you their wares, you need only wish for your hunger to disappear and it will be. You need not practice your profession and enjoy the adventure of honing your skills to a blade's edge, you need only wish for it's mastery and it shall be. These may as well be cheating, in the minds of many. And to what point does life have, if you need only ask for what you receive? Only to later regret the decision you've made.

He wishes for knowledge.
A missive is delivered to him, granting him passage into the most renowned library of the lands, which hold the secrets to the world in itself. A place containing the intelligence centuries in the making. He did not wish to know it.

He wishes for work.
A knight in blindingly polished armor approaches him, having heard of his expansive knowledge, and offers to make him his honored scribe. Accompanying him on the adventure which will no doubt become legend. He did not wish to do it.

He wishes for gold.
He stumbles one night when walking to his camp upon a misshapen branch, which uncovered an ancient stone trapdoor. Leading down into the hidden treasure hoard of a long-forgotten time. He did not wish to protect it.

He wishes for happiness.
Dozens of suitor's are made readily available to him, most of which he is unable to succeed in courting, but for one he is able to find true love. Though naught but a week later she leaves him for far better man, leaving him alone in grief for the loss of the one he had trusted to bring him fulfillment. He did not wish to keep it.

Long moonlit nights must always end by sun's relentless glare.
Unless it is hidden by a shadow's lasting care.
Twigs break, leaves shed,
All the trunks of trees go to bed.
The bats find shelter in their sightless caves,
While the bones of restless rise up from their graves.
Farmers, bakers, smithy's alike,
All are filled with this dreadful psych.
No lanterns, no candles, no torches nor light
The only things glowing are devils of the night.
Darkened corridors carrying numerous echoes unending,
To offer a great feeling that is utmost condescending.

These halls carry no hope, no happiness, no life
They carry only a boon of endless strife.
Many a man may come to seek fame,
But all who leave here leave only in shame.
A knight ye may be who trudges these caves,
but all who stay here stay only as slaves.
So woe to thee who searches this room,
So woe to thee who finds his tomb.

What is truth?
Truth is not the light in the dark. Truth is not the secrets held by dusty books. Truth is not what is hidden from you by your superiors. Truth is not what men go on grand quests to seek. Truth is not wonderful. It does not fit in fancy folktales to tell your youth before they slumber. Truth is not good. Truth is not evil. Truth is whatever one realizes it to be.

Though don't be mistaken, for truth is far from fact. Truth need not be reality, for a lie can be truth all the same. A skilled silver-tongue knows this best. For if you simply make habit of always telling the truth, albeit partially, none can dare tell you that you are lying. And so here lies such a lesson. There is none alive that likes a lair, but there are many who love one who tells them the truth. So go out, and tell people your truth, but keep in mind they need not know everything. For sometimes it is not the lie that stings most, but instead what is hidden behind it's beautiful curtain.

I speak to many of such truths. I have never told a lie, and I never will. Though it is good that they do not know the full truth, for that would only lead to conflict.

There are many who hide lies, that much even a blind man can see. Though his sight is still limited. He can see them in their corners, tucking their draped golden boxes behind then as they speak. Such drapes even I cannot see through with my eyes, and that is good. If something is hidden, it should stay where it belongs: In the unknown. That is good.

Lies, however, are a much different subject. Lies do not exist naturally. Lies are created. There is a truth to the world, but there are no lies to it. Not unless one creates them to cover it's different parts. Lies are crafted like goods from a laborer. A skilled smith makes fine blades, but an amateur scraps his metal. Just like a skilled liar creates truth from lies, an amateur can only create drapes to cover their gilded cages.

What is a pauper to a king?
The king does not care if the pauper becomes injured. He does not care if they become ill. He does not care if they weep for loss of their loved ones. He does not care if they writhe in pain beneath him. He does not care if they are happy. He does not care if they are sad. He does not care if they eat. He does not care if they starve. He does not care if they are left for dead. he does not care if they fester in the wilds. He does not care if they die.

A king needs not worry for such things, after all. The people will live, the people will die, the people will riot, the people will thrive. He cares not. He does not need to. So why then would a king ever care for a pauper?

There are stories of kings such as the one I have described. They are labelled tyrants, murderers, traitors, false kings. But in all reality they are naught but perfection. A king who leaves his people to fend for themselves creates a kingdom that the most enlightened people on their plane would adore. A realm of chaos. A realm of distraught, rife with crime and anarchy to stand up a king who cares nothing for his people. A king who's purpose is not to make them happy with gold or food, but to set them free through pain and loss. Some may think it cruel to be so crude when treating their own people, the one's they swore to protect with such disdain, but again it begs the question.
What is a pauper to a king?

A true king does not leave his people in blissful contentment. He does not feed them to fill their bellies. He does not provide guards to ease their minds. He does not offer shelter from the dangerous elements. He does not offer happiness and entertainment for them to enjoy. He instead offers freedom, chaos, power. All such things which an orderly king strips of his people he will provide them.

Such is how a true king rules over his paupers.
Such is what a pauper is to a king.

I know of a story of three young people, all terribly happy and content with their fates. One a princess, the most lovely girl in all the land. All women envied her beauty and all men adored it's simple sight. She was a dancer, by chance, one of the best in the land, and as such her father had organized a ball for her to dance about and enjoy with the people of the realm. One was a prince, from a far away land of chivalry, that valued strength and honor above all else. He was no villain, he was not corrupt of heart. He was a true knight in shining armor, and sought to court this princess. One was a simple man, one who is quite regularly left out of such a story. He was no special individual, only by chance being invited to the princesses grand ball. He too, sought to court the wondrous princess, as was only reasonable were one not already wed. So one might wonder: What ever could such a simple man do to win over this princess, when such a perfect prince was placed before her? Well that is quite simple, really. He held his chin high, holding himself above everyone in the room and strolled directly up to the princess herself, asking politely for a dance. One to which she happily obliged. And so they danced, they danced a imperfect dance, as this pauper had yet to receive very formal training, but she was kind and sympathetic to him. She led him along and taught him the steps until he was at least an amateur. Though this dance could not last forever, and she retired from the floor for a time to rest, allowing him to use this new knowledge to find a new dancer of his own. It was not long before the prince approached her and asked the same. Following such, a wondrous ballad ensued. Star-crossed lovers meeting at last on this polished ballroom floor, their hearts finally intertwining and finding an endless happiness in the company of one another. As such, she forgot about the lowly pauper, and lived her happily ever after with her knight in shining armor.

A truly pitiful ending.

There is no deal without a price.
It is only natural for a mortal to always want something in return. This is common knowledge. A man does not offer his bread without first asking for coin. A woman will not offer her hand in marriage without payment in love, or less fortunately, gold. It is why such expressions exist such as "A deal too good to be true" or "So then what is the hitch?" for all mortal people know that for every gift, there is a price. Even when parents provide for their children during holidays they do so for payment in the form of the smiles on their children's faces, as well as the memories they leave in the children's heads to reap the reward upon later in their lives.

In the same way, all deals are made to mutual gain.
This is not common knowledge. There are few who truly know that in every deal, both sides come out with similar gain. One may ask, "What if a thieving merchant is to sell at poor prices? Or a dirty captain is to charge ridiculous tax?" The explanation is quite simple. A man would not pay such outrageous coin if the deal was not to his liking, but he does anyway. For the man knew the goods the merchant sold were worth more than market price to him, for whatever reason he may have. And the trader knew that if he were to refuse, he would be forced to deal with the guard's harassment, and so he valued his goods far higher than one might know.

But even some deals are beyond my own fathoming.
For why ever would one ever accept a one-sided deal? It is inhuman. It is something a mortal would never dream of doing. Giving without taking is a concept entirely foreign. So why would one ever accept such a deal as this? Perhaps it is the empty illusion that provides payment, but even that is nothing in itself. To give such love and care, for naught but anger and disdain in response is a deal that only one such as myself would ever try take.

Perhaps all one needs to accept a deal is to be paid in false coin.

How does one obtain what one can never gain?
This question may vex a good number of individuals, but it's answer is straightforward and very much simple. A man without gold and cannot work for it will take it. A man without a fancy robe and cannot trade for it, will find a way to steal it. A man that cannot win the heart of a woman, will steal her. Just the same as a man without worth, will steal the reputation from another man's hard work. A man that has something he cannot regain will seek it back out through vengeance.

One gains something they cannot have by simply stealing it.
Thus is the simple fact of life, that few come to realize in their time. This is the simple mentality a thief will carry even with his non-replaceable hands at stake. "If I cannot have this, I will take it." Though some thieves are more subtle than the traditional harassers and thugs that roam the streets. Some take a more hidden approach and steal unwillingly. A boy who lost his mother will not physically steal one from another boy, he will instead unconsciously search for a figure to replace her, and when he does, he will effectively take her as his own mother. There are many thefts that go unseen by the eyes of others, but these such thefts are plain sight for one without eyes such as I.

In such eyes, all are thieves one way or another. They may be thief of emotions, of goods, of souls, of hearts, of immaterial goods galore. Some are knowing of their crimes while others do so passively with no sense of what evil they have done. Some steal pride from others which they can never hope to recover, and so what do they do to gain what they can never hope to obtain? They seek vengeance. They steal it away from the man who stole it from them, crafting into existence a vicious cycle of no end. A man taking from another until one finally admits defeat, and abandons the quest which he fought so hard to maintain.

So if one cannot be happy alone, why would it be so wrong to steal away the happiness of another and take it for oneself?

What is life, if not a dance?
For a dance contains every simple aspect of life one could ever wish for. A dance is quick, it is exciting, it is difficult, it is fun. A dance is fleeting, it is chaotic, it is hard to follow, it is swift. A dance is a wonderful experience, which may leave some with fame or infamy in troublesome quantities. It may provide some with a feeling of sadness, or wipe their minds away as they are unconsciously swept into this thralled movement.

A dance is simple.
As is life. There is good and there is bad, and there is ever greater number of both in between. There are exacts. All can be simplified down into word by word rules which all must follow, willing or not. Even magic is held by such bounds, for there is no mage that can harness abilities that break magical lore, just as no single man can move a mountain no single mage cannot hope to kill a god.

A dance is swift.
As if life. Life is a hare, that all spend decades chasing after before it finally escapes their sight and they become lost in the forest around them. One must think quickly, and understand every movement ahead of them while also learning from mistakes behind them to truly master a dance. One must not be as ignorant as to allow themselves to be swept away by their partner and led to an unknowing bliss of confusion and joy. No, one must keep clear of mind through the fog of happiness and see through to the truth that lies behind the mask.

A dance is exciting.
As is life. Death brings silence, peace, tranquility. Death does not bring action, romance, conflict, entertainment. It simply provides solace to those who have become tired of the joys in life, and wish to retire from it. This is the reason some do not fear death. A dance will never finish until it's performer becomes to tired to continue. Some think it is fate, or the god's will that leads them in life, but that is not their truth.

It is only by one's own will that they can truly die.