M'Ikalden's Journal (Passage VI)

1st of Oak, Sun Stone.

The Eldared Camp of Ninth River





The cordwainer bound me new Galochs, I invested in a Gamashe as my old were torn and molded by weather. I still have more than doit in my pocket and the sun is gazing down. It's the perfect day to forage brush for wild berries.



Now, I am a man that of less abridged faith than footfalls wanderers claim to know and ever more the wiser. I have seen regrettable things that no amount of water can wash my eyes from. I hadn't believed it at first but it was then he came to me in gale, an onslaught of gelid drafts to coalesce his demeanor. When he spoke, he did so with a hallowed sound, as the air before me stood still;



"You are a mortal and so is this revolving stone,

the matter that is dust in which we speak as collective whole.

You're an insignificant reflection of one another as so.

How do you, human, wield such power?"



He emitted these profanities, perhaps to challenge me. I was struck with fear as the blow of a sudde quake beneath my knees. A man such as I, who'd faced horrors, was now facing an empty space. The most intimidating thing perhaps, could be the vapid space before me, uttering words at me. Speaking of things no one would otherwise know of. This, shook me to my core. The epiphany that this visit of that of which, for my departure upon arrival, and I was not ready. A heartless paradigm in the beautiful existence of thought, oh yes, did I despair. For I was far from ready. I withdrew, my curiosity and humanity as the unsheathing, and flung my glorified damascus through nothing.



"Reveal yourself, vicious wraith! You will not take me, or my blade!"



The evasive threat drove me to the arms of insanity, tearing through the woods the vociferous screeches escaped my throat in vain. Madden I was, then I'd lost my eyesight within the last few moments breath. I'd smacked my fore right into a weight-ridden branch thick with itching brush. I continued on despite the maniacal laughter of the phantom. I felt my feet binding come undone and the muddy terrain suck at my feet through the swamp. I made a direct bolt towards the village, ignorant to the inconvenient trail I'd trekked to my demise.



Of course, I'd ran the wrong way. It was taking much too long and I couldn't see a Balthazar if it flung to my face, so I went full tilt off a large cliff-ledge, which stooped to a riverbed. As I tumbled, the blade loosened from my grip and I felt the cold sink into my lungs. I was torn away from land.



I awoke to a woman shoving me awake dight in some sort of armor. Yelling at me, calling me a drunk. I guess, without much on my soiled legs and feet I looked like a sore wreck. I doubted anyone would believe me if I tried to explain what'd just happened. To my confusion, she spared me no sympathy. I must have really looked like I woke up from one pint too many.



"Stand up, and don't even try with me if you're a cutpurse, it will take me a sandgrain to lop off your sorry matted head! I'll have to delate you anyhow!" she emphasized her dispraise all too much at this point. If I was going to be called a drunk, I may as well be exactly that. I had no sword, barely clothed and my rucksack is back in the woods, which I have yet to go find tomorrow. So I've made some deals and get to sleep warm for a night, but tomorrow, a new war will begin.