Daargan sits and composes another note in his journal.
The more I sit and stew in court here in Candlemere and Tuskendale, the more and more I become convinced that I am ill-suited for politics. I find myself increasingly irritable and ill-tempered. I dislike the endless debate. And many of the people that I deal with; why don’t they see how I see? Why do they feel their uninformed opinions should carry as much weight as mine? Several times I have had to suppress the urge to silence them with a display of power. I know it is arrogance to see myself as superior to the common man, but the plain fact is that some of us simply are more capable, more powerful, than others.
Things were simpler for me, in many ways, before I came here. When strength of arms was the rule of law, and questions were not asked.
But still, I know that that is not the way I should be. The right path is not always the easy one, as Gideon would say. I want to be a good person, to belong, to feel wanted—and justly so. But it is not easy, and I never was as patient as I’d like to be.
It seems Ng the Hooded may have answered my prayers. I received a missive asking me to travel to Tuskendale at the next opportunity. Apparently there is some concern over a fort a week or so to the east of here having suddenly fallen silent, and discussion tends towards sending some people to see what’s happened. I will volunteer to be a part of the party. I don’t know what we’ll find, but I do know I wish to find out.
I have not felt so excited in months.