I had forgotten about this book. I'm not sure what caused it, really -- whether I'd simply put it into the back of my mind, if I believed it stolen, or lost the memory in the fog of the far shores I spent so long upon. In the end, it does not matter; now I have it again.
I found it behind a loaf of bread, in the very back of my cupboard. I don't have any recollection of putting it there. It's strange. Probably got shoved back there by whoever decided looting the dead man's house was a good idea. The people in Wyndham were too superstitious to do something like that. I miss them.
But ye gods, the bread! It isn't a loaf so much as a slab. I have half a mind to hand it over to some alchemist. No doubt if he could find a way to make stone as hard, the city's walls would be impenetrable. It's quite a lovely shade of green, where it sits under the cupboard. It must have spent months sitting back there.
I always was absentminded when it came to things like eating. And sleeping, for that matter. Dana always said I wouldn't do either if I didn't have a servant putting out the food and turning down the sheets, and quite often she is proved only too right.
But. Now is not the time for me to be writing about moldy bread and older days. Were I truly wise, I'd be writing down my last will and testament, or perhaps an autobiography. I lack the energy for these things, and tomorrow I'll need energy aplenty -- I am, after all, going off to certain doom.
Well. It is far from certain, I possess a tendency towards the melodramatic. Nonetheless the thought of hunting demons does not put me at ease. On the morrow, I and as many as ten people will journey past the West Gate into the godforsaken forests there, and throw ourselves at the outskirts of the horde. Any reasonable man would see it as foolishness.
Fortunately, I am far from reasonable. I think my associations with the then-young Lady Mao are more than adequate to prove that point to anyone. Divine will is not a thing to be trifled with. Yet trifle I did, and here I am taking the more responsible and pious road only when it is the most dangerous.
I remember the sands
[There is a rather large ink stain at the top of the next page, obscuring some three paragraphs.]
I agreed. And thus this is my duty. My "destiny," perhaps, if I wanted to present myself with a certain degree of mystery and madness. I wonder if I shall tell Aerilae the tale, when she sits down to write my story. Perhaps. Better it's only known if I succeed.
But I must succeed. Ever since that great disaster that weighs upon everyone, it seems the only thing we've done is lose, and lose yet more. It is time for that trend to change. The people must be motivated, for if we despair, we can do nothing. And so I shall go, weak as I am, and fight.
I think I'll take the bread along. If I throw it hard enough, it's bound to break something.
Posted by Aanson at 01:14 AM
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I pondered the question, today, of how House Doraster might appear in a summary of Telantha's noble houses, in the sort of book that minor nobles and members of the gentry love to leave open on a table, conveniently turned to their entry. Our mention would be short. It would hardly even merit a full paragraph. We are not rich, we have made no great exploits, and we hold no great lands or titles. Nonetheless, it is my family, and it is because of my family that I am who I am.
The Lineage of the Doraster Barony
Donovan ap Wyndham Doraster
Meredith ferch Winston, his wife
Dana ferch Edgar Arndell, his apprentice and adopted daughter
Desmond ap Donovan Doraster
Rosa ferch Milton Tyrell, his wife
Aanson ap Desmond Doraster (Born 31st year of Heigan II)
-----
And that, as it stands, is our lineage. It is not long, it is not impressive, it is nothing even resembling notable. It is, in fact, irrelevant. We have done nothing of importance beyond situate ourselves within the nobility, and solidify that position. All the land we worked so hard to earn, our very home, all is gone. We earned, we lost.
It is not unlike my life. I earn, I lose.
I earned skill with magic; I lost my eyesight.
I earned the close, tender relationship with Dana I always desired, but only by losing my parents.
I earned a lesson in the true workings of the world and had my eyes opened, but only by losing Dana.
I earned a title and position far more respected than any my father and grandfather could have hoped to earn, but only through losing my estate.
I earned friends. And I have lost them all. Perhaps there is another way I might write my own, personal history:
The Baron Doraster's Family
Donovan Doraster -- Died of old age
Meredith -- Died in childbirth
Dana Arndell -- Walked to her own death
Desmond Doraster -- Eaten alive by demons
Rosa Tyrell -- Died by infection of the blood
His Close Acquaintances
Gregor -- Died in cataclysm, cause unknown
Zarika Mao -- Dead by her own hand
Lia -- Killed to avenge the lady Mao
Tzoli Kita -- Died defending Aanson Doraster and Telantha from demons
The Right Honourable Baron
Aanson Doraster -- Still Alive
Now, as before, I am left behind. All I can do is earn something new. Perhaps this time, I shall be allowed to keep it.
Posted by Aanson at 11:53 PM
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Why am I writing like this, about myself? I've always thought journal-keeping frivolous, self-serving. Why dither about one's self when there are much greater things to be pondered, much more meaningful things to be said that are poignant to all, and not just one's ego?
That is, after all, why people have written diaries throughout history -- for the sake of their 'I.' So that others would know it as they do, know the 'real' them. Few would be so foolish as to provide a written record of their thoughts and feelings if they did not mean for it to be read. Though I do admit that most journals were written in the knowledge (no, the hope) that they would never be opened by another until after their author's death, if the journal is not burned, then its author wishes it known. Thus a diary becomes a sort of historical record, a way for the writer to pass on his life, his opinions, even after death.
I wonder just how unbiased a memoir written as lesson, message, or chronicle of self can be. Even the act of writing, and thus asserting that one's ideas are worth passing on, is its own small kind of arrogance. If a journal's purpose is to show others the 'true' you, do you even notice if you begin to falsify things slightly in your favor? Does it even feel like falsehood? One can never know how biased, how falsified a record of another's life is. One can only trust the words of the author.
Mine will be burnt.
Posted by Aanson at 10:57 PM
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