Burning Beacon in The Night | The Journal of Fiore Amaranthos

Written in delicate, spidery cursive upon a page stained a sickly yellow with age, the mer's accounts begin here.

I have clawed to the top only for the rug of self-made success to be torn from under my feet. Here's to hoping that writing of my days and I daresay, my feelings, will help me cling onto my Humanity. I am part of the physical plague upon Tamriel, a vampire.

There seems to be a pause in the writing as when it resumes, the ink is much thicker as if the quill's tip was pressed harder.

The hopes I had for my future not as a scholar but a man are all but naught. What once was a burning beacon, something to strive for, is now the faint flicker of a frail flame. It grows dimmer with each passing day and I have no doubts that it will soon be extinguished.

My sire is a stocky Bosmer, one that isn't shy about speaking of my physical beauty.

I have plans for him.

From observation alone, he seems to have a romantic soul. The irony in saying he has a soul at all has not gone unnoticed. Perhaps he seeks to recreate a patchwork family of those suffering from the same affliction as he boasts of being the leader of a coven.

As for the previously mentioned plans, he seems to have taken somewhat of a shine to me and that is what I will be using against him. I'm going to make him fall in love with me, going to make a show of gradually warming up to him and the idea of being a fanged creature of the night. It will be difficult as whenever I see him I have the greatest urge to drive a dagger into his heart.

I suppose I will be doing so in a metaphorical sense as once I have him wrapped around my finger, playing the part of a doting lover, I will break him just as he has broken me. How sweet it will be to see him in emotional distress. I've played out the scene many times in my mind and the very thought fills me with such glee. There is a desperation about him, one that calls for the attention of others as I can't seem to shake him when I set out to sit on my own. Thelin is a fool, a trusting fool.

For now, I will begin to dawdle longer in his company. Perhaps a lingering glance every so often.

The pale imp will pay dearly.

If I can't have his life, I'll take his heart.

I misjudged the imp's intelligence.

No matter, while he was suspicious in my sunny disposition, I am still confident that I will have him wrapped around my finger in a month's time. I am none so daft to those lingering glances of lust, though he can be bold in such comments of my physical beauty.

He is a fool.

To judge a book's cover by their appearance, is it not one of the earliest lessons in which we learn as children as not to do? Of course, racial prejudices and politics aside, they are basic teachings. One that he is impossibly slow to catch up on. Though if I am to be fair (the irony is not lost on me), I've painted a convincing mask to hide my true intentions and delude the pair.

They have pity for me, I believe, and I have pity for them for they have no clue of seed of distrust I will plant between the two until they too are speaking to me in confidence of their dislike for one another which I in turn will nourish such distrust by reporting the information to the opposite person. My genius feeds from chaos, and these two leeches have enough to spare. From that, who knows what emotional turmoil will further grow. Distrust will meld into bitterness and from there, I can only imagine in utter glee what malice can only come next.

Britta has the emotional depth of a stone, she is harder to read. I am hardly fretting over this fact though, I merely need to shape myself to something or someone she is comfortable and familiar enough with. That being said, she gifted me with a hairbrush after complaining if the knots in my hair and I caught her smiling. Lovely, I wonder if she too thirsts for the romantic attention of another? How fun it would be to see them fight over me.

Thelin, on the other hand, spoke of a deceased lover. I've come up with a bit of a tale to gain his trust and worm my way into his heart with the precision of a parasite. I will soon drop details here and there of a lost love, one whom took my son and left me on this bitter plane of existence on my own. I will make a game of not giggling like a schoolgirl when I play the part.

Does he know the difference between love and obsession? Hopefully not, I need him to carry both in his heart when he thinks of me.