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OOC note on Inkwood entriesJournal entries are now located on her IC blog here.
Oschon's Torch, Lower La Noscea
I am a day late for my scheduled return to the new city I love, but I'm sure the powers that be won't begrudge me for bearing witness to a series of changing skies, soft pink in the evening, and a touching sylphan hue seeping in slowly when light approaches... so intent are they on their ruthless chugging through the waters that they never even look up. Well, I will appreciate the Knights' lovely land and their lonely La Noscean residents for them.Â
I run the risk of stereotyping, of course (though what would the world be without it?), but beneath that gruffness of the Roegadyn race - those imposing rock walls - is a strong rook of a heart. In my brief occupancy of the tall grasses of Oschon's Torch, for the purpose of rumination and sky-watching, I have become deeply acquainted with and fond of Rostnzeh, an individual of remarkable sentiment, though he would claim otherwise (to both that remark on his sentiment and my claim of intimacy). I have gathered wild flowers on his behalf and delivered him more than two lunches from the docks; he has, in return, rewarded me with a companionable silence and protection from jackals during a rather unprecedented afternoon nap.Â
In fact, my heart was so much moved that I offered to date the sad and solitary Rostnzeh. Of course this was meant in jest, though that did not prevent the blush from creeping into gray Roegadyn skin. What a dear he is... we will miss each other's company out here where nobody and everything is. There he stands, looking off into the distance, pondering about Ghimthota. I will tell him a final joke or tale before I return to Lominsa.Â
Thalaos, Oakwood, Upper La Noscea
It seems I am upon the seat of myth itself. Or should I say, poised delicately on what remains of its innards consuming morning victuals and watching coeurls, those lovely creatures, swarm like beetles in the pools below.
It was a long, hard climb up here, and then the Kobolds to contend with. Not the likeliest place for an escape, though it is beautiful (and there are falls in the distance) - we adventurers and traders are the ones who have come to disrupt its tranquility.
But is it not fitting to be in a timeless place on the day of your lover's death anniversary?
Today I remember Jasper.
(Today, just today, I will acknowledge how alone I have become.)
Airship. Departed from Ul'dah at twilight
Returned to Ul'dah yesterday, clad in a hood despite the heat. (But what did I fear?) The dust on skin, constant chatter, cloying merchant smiles, sweat, sun. Yesterday, after wandering around for a hour, I Â retreated into the Quicksand to wait for Kokoniku and looked briefly into dozens of faces wholly unfamiliar to me. Have I been away too long, silly, wretched city I have somehow forgiven, if there is anything to forgive?
I told myself that the assignments brought me here, but that is probably not the whole truth.Â
In the Quicksand I found myself accosted by a similarly hooded being, a Lalafell by the name of Jigumundo Darkbore who's a researcher of the arcane. We met again earlier today on the stairs near the Gladiators where I earned myself a short series of shrill yells from him for jolting him from his slumber (and, it must be admitted, causing him to perform a little tumble down the steps). Mister Darkbore is interestingly unreserved about his alleged homicidal instinct, and while I don't doubt his powers or intellect, he seems, deep down beneath, to just be a certified grump.Â
So I agreed, on impulse, to be his research assistant. Good timing; my wallet is thinning. My first task is to procure him willing Miqo'tes for him to inspect their ears. I'm not sure how he acquired his racist distaste for members of the Miqo'te race - he simply claims they lack intelligence. Silly. The arcanist guildmaster happens to be one K'rhid Tia, and that's just one case in point.Â
I suppose I will wait for his letters in Limsa Lominsa.
See you sometime, Ul'dah.Â
The Drowning Wench, Limsa Lominsa
Evening rain. The slow, weepy kind, that gets into your eyes but not in your way, as gnats which hover disinterestedly, persistently.
It needs to stop. My ferry to Costa del Sol - my next excursion - is due soon.Â
It seems the tavern atmosphere of the Quicksand is seeping into the Drowning Wench. It's taking its time about it, but the change is definite. There are even more non-Roegadyn adventurers here now, more travelers intent on a good conversation partner alongside their choice of drink, and Baderon is busier than usual - more, too, are beginning to seek his charms.
***
I've had company too, with J. on one occasion and one S. Grace on another. Miss Grace and I had a brisk conversation about my terms. Part of me still bubbles with amusement about this impulsive act (match-making - who'd have thought it? Jasper and the old ruffians would've laughed their heads off). The soberer part of me acknowledges the necessity of this beyond the practical importance of a traveling companion through difficult areas. There are the long campfire nights... I tire of keeping worlds to myself.
***
J. seemed happier, somehow. He had taken my advice, for which I am genuinely glad, and acquired a little coven of students. I must profess my excitement at getting to meet them.
In fact, the "Professor", as he prefers me to call him in public, had improved so much that I was given a rare treat of a sharp cackle of a laugh (Jig laughing!) and his ridiculous Highlander-walks-into-a-bar jokes - all composed on the spot. (All stereotypes, but Jasper, I know you'd have loved them.)
We spoke as friends, not colleagues, not employer and employee. After he left I continued sitting at the bar, smiling to myself.
I believe I am getting over-fond of this little fellow... especially since absence makes the heart fonder. His Royal Crankiness would not do for a regular traveling companion - we might end up roasting each other.
***
For, like Jasper, I love fiercely, in spite of myself, and freely; friends, lovers, are not to be chained.
[A series of torn pages precedes this entry.]Â
Ferry. En route to Hidden Falls
A costly misadventure. Stumbled ashore the Gully eight days ago with Sir Fabuli and myself bedraggled messes - curses on the rain - ravaged some raptors, not very readily, I'm afraid - slipped on some wet rocks - well, my kin has never known grace - got unceremoniously entangled in a Gigantoad's tongue.Â
I must have been the stinkiest scribe alive - half-alive - Â when we hauled our sorry selves to Wineport, where an exasperating Etgar procured us some aid and lodging. Fellow only obliged because I managed to feign a talent for killing raptors with what spoils I'd kept from that. But mostly because I sang Byrglaent's praises with as many synonyms for 'excellent' as I could remember with a fevered, addled mind. These pages still reek of amphibian greed and guts. Â Â
And misshapen poetry. Attempted writing at full moon in the open on the fourth night with a costly bottle of wine for the romance of it; of course it quickened the fever all over again. Only produced bleak, sordid material good for Gigantoad feed. Twelve hells on Gigantoads.Â
Rent for my room at the Mizzenmast has been overdue by two days. And I have much to see to when I'm back.Â
This would not make a good tale.Â