I am going to write you. I will not like it. What I write will probably not make much sense, but I doubt you would be useful to anybody in anyway. But you will be written, because Dad said I should write you. So Dad, on the chance that I’ve lived long enough to return this journal to you, the joke’s on you! Your well-meaning attempt at engendering self-reflection will be to no avail!
Phew…fancy words make me tired. Perhaps when the ancients invented language they should have left out a few words to make things less complicated. Or maybe grammar would have been better off with a simplification from the top. I mean, what good are adjectives anyway? What good has ever come of describing something?
Wait, what was I doing? Oh yeah, a journal—a self-obsessed, self-important narrative to provide lasting insight about all the dumb things I do. Yes, dumb, the opposite of smart. I am admitting that I can be dumb sometimes. You’d best not make an issue of it.
Journal, I want you to understand that I am not perfect. Dashing? Definitely. Clever? Clearly. Verbose? Verily! But perfect? Not quite. I do have that mole on the back of my neck that everyone thinks is an engorged tick. When I wake up in the morning my hair looks like an abandoned birdnest. I may even talk too much. And sometimes…sometimes…I do things that I end up regretting. So far this adventure has been relatively light on such regrets. Time to see what I can do about that.
So yeah, journal, here’s the situation. I have somehow been misidentified as a knowledgeable, trustworthy, and capable woodsman by a charming pair of siblings known as Sasha and Katya Rastilov. They have signed on with me and an armor-clad gnome to explore the lost lands under an adventurer’s charter. What does that mean you ask? I’m not really sure—small print has never been my strong point. As near as I can tell, we’re here to poke around, do good, and be heroic. Fortunately for the others, I am an expert in do-goodery. I could probably teach classes in the subject.
To that point: since arriving at Fort Oleg we’ve managed to save a nice couple, break up a criminal gang, and slightly annoy some Kobolds. Not bad for a week or so of effort! Another couple of weeks like this and they’ll have to rename the place. Maybe ‘Sunny Bandit-free Monster-less Happy Land?’ I realize it doesn’t have quite the ominous charm of the ‘Stolen Lands’, but I bet a new name would significantly raise property values.
My companions are pleasant enough company, though maybe a little bit eager to stretch necks for my taste. Sasha thinks himself a hero…and I guess he’s right. Brave, bold, and willful, he’s not a bad guy to point the compass for our group. Dimyi—the gnome—is formed from a similar, (much smaller) mold, though he seems to prefer the path of direct action to the importance of the dramatic speech. I would like to know better his riding dog, Gar, but for the moment the canine is solidly in an anti-Lem mood. I’ve seen him bite, and so I will give him some room until he becomes used to the big Halfling with the crossbow.
What is that Journal? You want to know about our fourth? Oh, you would, wouldn’t you? You’d love for me to gush all over how pretty Katya is or how much I favor her smile. Well, tough luck book. Those sentiments I will keep to myself. Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll give you a sketch. Until then, you’d better be quiet. Can you manage that?
Good Journal. You’re not as terrible as I maybe first thought. But I’ll have my eye on you. You won’t defeat me!