Entry I – A Child of the Crossroads
Haven, Caer Aravel, Home
Where do I begin?
What of my beginnings?
I do not belong to one land. My mother, Ailnya, was born beneath the arched spires of Haven’s courts, of a "civilized order." However, she once crossed into "wild lands" of Fenwick - bold and inquisitive - and nearly lost her life.
Qui’Gar - one of the "Faint Divinity" that roams the lands of Fenwick, not sequestered away into the heavens and other more spiritual realms. I've come to know of her through texts and legend. How she visits a quiet end to those who suffer at the hands of the wilds. My mother would have met such an end would it not been for a fated firbolg healer. He tended her wounds and spirit through the turning of many moons. I know only this: he left quietly, so she might live.
My mother rarely speaks of him, and when she does it is punctuated by sad silences. I have learned to read and listen to silence. I have come to know of curse that haunts him, my mother and perhaps even myself.
Entry XI – Of Quiet Heritage
Haven, Caer Aravel, The Great Archive
Who Am I?
I'm a simple scholar. I have left behind the frivolousness and childish things. I am engrossed in studies at the Great Archive of Caer Avarel in Haven. I have earned the respect of my teachers and other learned scholars during my early years here.
I am not one to care for appearance or "fine things." My mother dotes upon me, and because of her I am swaddled in fine robes of violet, blue, and ashrose. One day maybe I will grow into these long sleeves drift just past my hands like thoughts unfinished, words unwritten. Thankfully the long skirts hang low to hide the unconscious sway of my tail. I can feel the soft strokes of my soft tuft of fur that slides against the fabric like some kind of artist's brush.
Velvety ears droop gently beneath the full auburn curls of my hair. I do not show them often. Not for shame… but because they feel sacred, private. A trait that belongs to memory, of my ancestry, not merely some spectacle to behold.
Entry XXII – The Fire
Haven, Caer Aravel, Home
It's been some time. My life has been full of parchment and duty.
No longer, something happened.
I left the archive once. Only once.
A traveling festival came to Caer Avarel, boasting tales of distant lands, spirits and gods. My friends begged me to go. Just an evening, they said. Nothing ever happens in Caer Avarel.
I went. Something happened. The archive burned.
Not all of it. Fortunately, another scholar had wandered by and noticed the growing flames within the stacks.
I’ve tried to reconcile it ever since: wonder and consequence. What was lost… and what have I become. I thought I had let go of childish things. The elders no longer trust me as they once did; I doubt they ever will again. I understand. It is my burden now, my penance owed to them - to myself.
Entry XXX – The Codex of Faint Divinities
Fenwick, A Tavern upon the road
I'm writing more now. I've left the order, and Haven.
I’ve heard scattered whispers of a tome that names the Faint Divinities of Fenwick.
No one agrees on its shape, its origin, or its purpose. But I believe in its promise that somewhere in its pages, a truth waits for me. Perhaps of the gods who walk unnoticed. Perhaps more about Qui'Gar, my father, and the curse that seems to haunt my lineage.
Entry XXXVI – Mercy Unexpected
Fenwick, a Road in the Wilds
I am now deep within the lands of Fenwick. It is difficult to describe the many mysterious things I have seen and partaken of.
One recent experience though struck me as if a dream, an echo of memory. Of my mother...
I lay wounded and bleeding in the brush of Fenwick's wilds. My caravan was beset by a band of Fenwick faithful who had taken up arms against Haven. It just so happened that my current company was of Haven. I had tried to escape but fell there, not far from the road. One of the warriors found me, a firbolg warrior. He looked into my eyes while gently lifting my head. He had felt my ears, and whispered a well known firbolg blessing. I awoke some time later in the small village my caravan was en route to.
I think of him often. How mercy changes shape depending on the hand it takes. How even an enemy might carry a thread of your story, tied without knowing.
Entry XL – Becoming
Fenwick, the Village of Jintook
Years of travel have changed me. I am no longer the pale, plump girl of archive corners. My skin carries the bronze memory of Fenwick’s sun, dusted with freckles from ridge and ruin. My full figure more softly shaped from my exhaustive travels.
I listen more. I speak with care. I walk slowly but with purpose, a gait shaped by years of soft correction. Though sometimes, when curiosity stirs, I buzz with it. Words come tumbling. Hands flutter, heart quickens, feet falter.
I am no longer only a scholar. I am seeker of truths. I learn through living and traveling the lands now - not just from parchment.
Entry XLII
A Day's Ride to Elmore
I have crossed most of Fenwick now and rumors have led me to Elmore. I have heard countless tales of the deliciously renown food and drink of that isle.
I'm arriving there tomorrow, I'm excited to see what new experiences await me!
