Diary Entry: Curious fates
(an excerpt from the Kalabra Series)
Ah, what curious fates have conspired to guide my hand to pen and parchment on this, the eve following our departure from the solemn yet comforting embrace of Orbius Sanctuary, home of the Sey Order.
Hazleflar, my sister, whose penchant for vivid attire rivals the most ostentatious sunset, has tasked me with this chronicle. “For posterity,” she claims, or lest we vanish into the annals of forgotten lore.
How delightfully morbid.
As Mortemenas Ebbard Jon the First (a title of such grandiosity it demands acknowledgment), I find myself perched upon the precipice of the unknown, our steeds carrying us with determined grace away from the familiar shadows of the sanctuary toward the mysterious Weeping Shallows. (I’m yet to figure out who comes up with these ridiculous names for places across Ezlethar, Last year Alkris my good friend took me on a interesting trip to a place called, wait for it….. “Dog’s Wiggle”! I’ll tell you more about that some other time)
In moments of solitude, my thoughts often meander to the extent of my “shadowy” talents. A double-edged sword, this power. A lingering apprehension shadows me — what if, in some twisted turn of fate, the Order were to fall under the sway of a power most vile? Could my sister and I be marionettes, dancing on the strings of some malevolent puppeteer? A chilling thought, indeed, akin to discovering one’s favorite wine has been replaced with vinegar at a banquet.
Yet, it is Haz, my sister, who injects a vibrant hue into the grayscale of my musings. To embark on this endeavor without her would be like attending a ball without one’s dancing shoes — pointless and mildly embarrassing. She, with her garments that challenge the very spectrum of visibility, stands as a beacon against my more, shall we say, nocturnally inclined nature. Together, we are a storm of fire and shadow, an ode to the duality of existence.
Now, for a confession, dear diary (an endeavor I find myself unexpectedly relishing). Amidst the cloak-and-dagger affairs of the Order and the intricate dance of politics and power, I have found amusement in the orchestration of secret pranks. One such jest involved the mysterious appearance of a series of outrageously colorful socks within Hazleflar’s belongings. To this day, she suspects the laundry maids. Little does she know, it was I, her brother, who played the clandestine haberdasher.
And then, there was the time I convinced her that the ancient tome of Sey lore could only be unlocked by reciting its title backwards under the full moon. The spectacle of Haz, adorned in her most ceremonious attire — the brightest colors and all, earnestly whispering gibberish to an inanimate book, remains a cherished memory, a testament to the enduring levity amidst our trials.
As I assume the watch this night, my sister’s gentle breathing a counterpoint to the crackle of the campfire, I am reminded of our shared resilience. The path ahead is fraught with uncertainty, yet together, we navigate the complexities of our destiny with a blend of seriousness and mischief.
To reflect on matters of state and the intricate web of alliances and enmities that define our world is to acknowledge the board upon which we are mere pieces. Yet, it is in understanding the game that we may one day turn the tide, wielding our unique abilities not as weapons of war but as instruments of peace and reconciliation.
In this quiet moment of reflection, penning my thoughts to you, dear diary, I find an unexpected solace. Perhaps Hazleflar’s insistence on this exercise was not merely a precaution but a gift, a means to anchor myself amidst the storm of our lives.
As dawn’s first light threatens to breach the horizon, I close this entry, the night’s watch still mine to keep. Tomorrow holds its own secrets, its own battles. But for now, I am content in the knowledge that our story continues, penned by my own hand, a narrative of fire and shadow, laughter and lore.
Until we meet again, dear diary, safeguard these words, for they are the essence of Mortemenas Ebbard Jon the First, of the venerable House Venment.
May the morrow find us brave, united, and perhaps, a step closer to unraveling the mysteries that await us.
With a quill dipped in the ink of ambition and pages yet unfilled,
Morte.
P.s. Remind me Diary (if you, at some point are shapeshifted into a living being) to tell you the story of how I once got Haz to eat a toad….and she still thinks it was lamb meat!
