The following journal entry seems to be rushed, the penmanship rather lacking compared to previous entries.
Along the margins are numerous clustered blots of ink of various sizes, giving the impression that she
had stopped to tap her quill against the parchment in thought.
had stopped to tap her quill against the parchment in thought.
   Sleep did not come easily to me last evening. Even now, my eyelids droop and I feel as if I can barely muster the energy to keep my quill moving. What little sleep that was not interrupted by tossing and turning was haunted by nightmares that made rest impossible, leaving me to open my eyes and stare at the ceiling in worried thought for much of the night.
   This is his fault, the stranger who approached me last night in the Quicksand. My head was already filled with mundane worries, given some recent disturbances in supply routes for my business. Yet that all paled in comparison when he sat down beside me.
   He sensed it - something off about me. That is not altogether unusual. Given the influx of adventurers in recent years, particularly those well-versed and sensitive to aetheric presence, it is not the first time that someone commented on there being something strange about my presence. Typically, I can either shrug it off or talk my way around it, diffusing the situation and redirecting suspicions. But the way he spoke, those carefully chosen and deliberate words.. He knows.
   I felt almost as if there was a threat there, somewhere, hidden in the subtleties of his phrasing. It has quite unnerved me. I've never walked so quickly back to my home as I did after I excused myself, feeling as if I was being watched and followed until I was safe behind a tightly locked door.
   Yet for every ounce of worry I feel, there is an equal amount of curiosity. I know not of the true nature of my continued existence, it vexes me to admit. What little information I have gathered on my condition is rudimentary at best, despite the amount of research that I have pored into finding answers. Yet this man spoke of malignant creatures as if he knew more than he spoke aloud. Could it be that he is mistaken? Or could it be that he knows something about the spell that plagues me - that it is something sinister?
   I need more information. Before I quit the tavern for the evening, I asked his name. Lren Rendarren. I know not whether it is truly his name or an alias, but it is a clue nonetheless. I shall have to look into him, to see if I can discern his intentions and affiliations. Yet, on the same note, the fact that he so freely gave his name - if it is truly as he claims - and did not bother to ask me my own unnerves me further. There is an undeniable confidence in that which worries me. Perhaps it is best that I should begin carrying a sceptre with me around the city at all times. One never quite knows, and I would prefer as to not be caught unawares.
   This is his fault, the stranger who approached me last night in the Quicksand. My head was already filled with mundane worries, given some recent disturbances in supply routes for my business. Yet that all paled in comparison when he sat down beside me.
   He sensed it - something off about me. That is not altogether unusual. Given the influx of adventurers in recent years, particularly those well-versed and sensitive to aetheric presence, it is not the first time that someone commented on there being something strange about my presence. Typically, I can either shrug it off or talk my way around it, diffusing the situation and redirecting suspicions. But the way he spoke, those carefully chosen and deliberate words.. He knows.
   I felt almost as if there was a threat there, somewhere, hidden in the subtleties of his phrasing. It has quite unnerved me. I've never walked so quickly back to my home as I did after I excused myself, feeling as if I was being watched and followed until I was safe behind a tightly locked door.
   Yet for every ounce of worry I feel, there is an equal amount of curiosity. I know not of the true nature of my continued existence, it vexes me to admit. What little information I have gathered on my condition is rudimentary at best, despite the amount of research that I have pored into finding answers. Yet this man spoke of malignant creatures as if he knew more than he spoke aloud. Could it be that he is mistaken? Or could it be that he knows something about the spell that plagues me - that it is something sinister?
   I need more information. Before I quit the tavern for the evening, I asked his name. Lren Rendarren. I know not whether it is truly his name or an alias, but it is a clue nonetheless. I shall have to look into him, to see if I can discern his intentions and affiliations. Yet, on the same note, the fact that he so freely gave his name - if it is truly as he claims - and did not bother to ask me my own unnerves me further. There is an undeniable confidence in that which worries me. Perhaps it is best that I should begin carrying a sceptre with me around the city at all times. One never quite knows, and I would prefer as to not be caught unawares.
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