Dear diary,
Anstarra immediately tore the page from the journal, crumpling it up and tossing it aside. So trite! As if a journal had anything useful to say. You wrote journal entries to yourself, after all, in order to review later, and understand your thoughts.
She dipped the pen in the inkwell, and started again.
Dear Anstarra,
"Ugh!" Rip, tear, crumple, toss. That was even worse, talk about self-indulgent. Not a trait she wanted to admit to herself, certainly not in any long-term capacity like this. Dipping the pen again, stirring it, she let it drip as she frowned at the sheet. Then looked around the room. At her semi-luxurious quarters, inside her own ship. The rewards of effort, of station, of... fortune. Luck.
A new frown (she was frowning more lately... no, don't frown about that, too!) as she considered this train of thought. Questions of whether she deserved her post, her rank, had rarely crossed her mind. Life was too haphazard, too filled with terrible highs and lows... she remembered well the day she had been offered Captaincy, and a ship. So soon after the terrible battle in the sky, the laying low of Ratatoskr's Summoned countenance... it had the air of reward, and that reward was, of all things, consistency. For being a Captain was something that had always seemed, to her, to be a desk job, removed from the mad whirl of happenstance.
Fingers drummed. Here, then, was her desk... yes, it was nailed to a ship, and hardly a mundane ship, and that ship plied the waters of the inner sea. She had not yet requested a privateer's commission, though some of her men had hinted at it. She understood them. The Iron Bitch was a fine ship, and surely would do well against Garlemald's own. And yet... yet here was the consistency she had craved. The mundane roll of patrols. The necessities of logistics. Reports, charts... logs.
Captain's Log. First Entry.
I have long considered myself a true child of the Alliance. Adopted to Gridania and living in Ul'dah, trained in Ishgard and serving Limsa Lominsa. Any who know me, however, will understand where my heart truly lies, and that is where I give my personal allegiance, to the city above the sea whose call of freedom embraced by loyalty was the one I heeded and have not been given cause to regret. Limsa Lominsa is my home, as much as any place can be.
In becoming a Captain in the Maelstrom's fleet, I have come to understand greater depths of what makes up this great nation, and found
She stopped, staring at the paper. What was she writing? What was she going to write, just now? Flashes, through her mind, of the courtroom. Of the dusty light, of the stoic, formal clothes and uniforms. Of the coldness and practicality with which had been weighed and measured the fate of a man.
Just a man. How many had she killed, in the past? Why did it matter so much? But she knew the answer. It mattered because of how it was done, it mattered because of the formality, the deliberation
"One hundred lashes, and three years' imprisonment."
the finality with which a gavel was dropped. Was this her world now? Could she do... that? She closed her eyes, and envisioned herself, sitting up there in Haelstyrmm's place, casting judgment. Based on whims, based on fine argument, on bits of evidence... or lack thereof.
And shivered, because it was easy.
and found
She stared at the half-completed journal page, feeling... sick. Troubled. Confused and.. afraid. What if this log was found? Read? Things she wrote could be used against her. She could end up where Dominic Morris had sat, just as easily. Accused. Tried. Condemned. Truth manipulated or presented in convenient lens... was this the Limsa she knew? The city she loved? The place of harsh but fair justice, and liberty?
Yet... what would protest avail her? Branded an enemy. A traitor. So obvious now, how quickly it could happen. Never mind that agents had stirred them to this... you could not exploit flaws that were not there. And more, she had others, beyond herself to worry about. Nihka, Sehki. Her crew, two hundred and fifty brave and loyal souls. She could not fail any of them, could not give reason for doubt. It would be irresponsible... disloyal, even.
She should only write fine things. Brave things. Inspiring things.
and found
Ink dripped from the tip of the pen, marring the page.
What did a journal matter, anyroad?
Just write. Something.
and found
Anstarra immediately tore the page from the journal, crumpling it up and tossing it aside. So trite! As if a journal had anything useful to say. You wrote journal entries to yourself, after all, in order to review later, and understand your thoughts.
She dipped the pen in the inkwell, and started again.
Dear Anstarra,
"Ugh!" Rip, tear, crumple, toss. That was even worse, talk about self-indulgent. Not a trait she wanted to admit to herself, certainly not in any long-term capacity like this. Dipping the pen again, stirring it, she let it drip as she frowned at the sheet. Then looked around the room. At her semi-luxurious quarters, inside her own ship. The rewards of effort, of station, of... fortune. Luck.
A new frown (she was frowning more lately... no, don't frown about that, too!) as she considered this train of thought. Questions of whether she deserved her post, her rank, had rarely crossed her mind. Life was too haphazard, too filled with terrible highs and lows... she remembered well the day she had been offered Captaincy, and a ship. So soon after the terrible battle in the sky, the laying low of Ratatoskr's Summoned countenance... it had the air of reward, and that reward was, of all things, consistency. For being a Captain was something that had always seemed, to her, to be a desk job, removed from the mad whirl of happenstance.
Fingers drummed. Here, then, was her desk... yes, it was nailed to a ship, and hardly a mundane ship, and that ship plied the waters of the inner sea. She had not yet requested a privateer's commission, though some of her men had hinted at it. She understood them. The Iron Bitch was a fine ship, and surely would do well against Garlemald's own. And yet... yet here was the consistency she had craved. The mundane roll of patrols. The necessities of logistics. Reports, charts... logs.
Captain's Log. First Entry.
I have long considered myself a true child of the Alliance. Adopted to Gridania and living in Ul'dah, trained in Ishgard and serving Limsa Lominsa. Any who know me, however, will understand where my heart truly lies, and that is where I give my personal allegiance, to the city above the sea whose call of freedom embraced by loyalty was the one I heeded and have not been given cause to regret. Limsa Lominsa is my home, as much as any place can be.
In becoming a Captain in the Maelstrom's fleet, I have come to understand greater depths of what makes up this great nation, and found
She stopped, staring at the paper. What was she writing? What was she going to write, just now? Flashes, through her mind, of the courtroom. Of the dusty light, of the stoic, formal clothes and uniforms. Of the coldness and practicality with which had been weighed and measured the fate of a man.
Just a man. How many had she killed, in the past? Why did it matter so much? But she knew the answer. It mattered because of how it was done, it mattered because of the formality, the deliberation
"One hundred lashes, and three years' imprisonment."
the finality with which a gavel was dropped. Was this her world now? Could she do... that? She closed her eyes, and envisioned herself, sitting up there in Haelstyrmm's place, casting judgment. Based on whims, based on fine argument, on bits of evidence... or lack thereof.
And shivered, because it was easy.
and found
She stared at the half-completed journal page, feeling... sick. Troubled. Confused and.. afraid. What if this log was found? Read? Things she wrote could be used against her. She could end up where Dominic Morris had sat, just as easily. Accused. Tried. Condemned. Truth manipulated or presented in convenient lens... was this the Limsa she knew? The city she loved? The place of harsh but fair justice, and liberty?
Yet... what would protest avail her? Branded an enemy. A traitor. So obvious now, how quickly it could happen. Never mind that agents had stirred them to this... you could not exploit flaws that were not there. And more, she had others, beyond herself to worry about. Nihka, Sehki. Her crew, two hundred and fifty brave and loyal souls. She could not fail any of them, could not give reason for doubt. It would be irresponsible... disloyal, even.
She should only write fine things. Brave things. Inspiring things.
and found
Ink dripped from the tip of the pen, marring the page.
What did a journal matter, anyroad?
Just write. Something.
and found