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DeSule
Visitor
Below is the full text of the recovered journal:
Page 1:
IN the blackness I look blindly for a heart beat. Soak in the nothing. There's only the dark. No memories, no mistakes, no one hurt. But we're on the move, and I can't stay.
I pull my hands away from my face. My captors are goading me with smoldering sticks from their fire. "Get up, author," one says to me. "Time we's a movin on. Gots us a boat to catch, we does." That accent; that poor grammar... what a charade. These goons aren't who they say they are. But I'll get to that. Assuming I don't die first. Assuming anyone reads these scattered notes.
My name is JL Polstan, and I'm walking to my execution.
***
Page 2:
My story began some years ago in Jhelom's Horse's Head tavern. She was in her mid 40s. Hair black as the Vast night sky, but with A streak of gray down her left cheek. When She walked in, the air went cold. She radiated authority and control. There was at least 20 years between us, but I knew I had to warm her cold heart. I was fire and she was water, and together we could blanket Britannia in steam.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I get up. Walk over. I lean against the counter next to her. Deciding a stern, noble, no-nonsense woman like her would enjoy whiskey, I order one and introduce myself.
***
Page 3:
We roll, moaning into each others' ears. Our passion burns the very skin between Our loins. The sheets of the bed Rage with fire, so we toss Them aside, making love, exposed, in the cool moonlight. I see meaning beneath me as I look into her eyes. Life seems complete, whole.
***
Page 4:
Weeks pass and we decide to live together in a small house in Jhelom. I write in solitude during the days and make love in the quiet hours of the night. She doesn't know it yet, but my book sales are paying for a quaint retreat northwest of Vesper.
The months drift by and the fiery passion burns on. Must all stories end?
Once upon a time, perhaps I would have said no. In my youth, I dabbled in necromantic magic.. exploring the art of Ressurecting the dead; controlling the undead; becoming a lich through powerful spells... all that nonsense. I say nonsense, because it's all behind me. I discovered my gift for writing when I penned a quaint poem for a lovely blonde lass in Britain. I like the idea of living forever, but writing seemed like the Easier path.
I'm getting Lost and sidetracked again. Let me tell you about that house... so many fond memories there. Before the story was over.
***
Page 5:
The house that love built. That's what we call our getaway. With a cold, dark dungeon-like chamber in the basement in which we explore our darker, Uncouth fantasies. The only mar on the home was an Uninstalled lock on our love dungeon door. I thought I could handle it myself, but I mistakenly reversed it... it locks from the outside... which I Suppose gives our nights together an air of taboo.
Ah but those were better days. Before this cult. Before my ego got the better of me.
***
Page 6:
Oh the parade of women. With fame comes its own Baggage. You write A story about a man with a pirate's charm, a rogue's swagger, and a prince's smile.. and suddenly women think you are that character. I'm not! I wasn't! I never will be. Each time I did a book signing, I protested when any Lady flirted with me, tried to touch me, showed me something she shouldn't have. But after the dozenth time, I caved.
I don't remember which woman was first. The first time I cheated on Janice feels like a century ago. Believe me reader, if I could take it all back, I would. But seeing as how these captors are threatening to hang me, I don't think I'll be getting that chance.
I must have slept with fifty women. But it was the last one who would be my death sentence.
***
Page 7:
Her name was Jilian. I Met her a book signing in New Magincia. She had piercing green eyes and A smile that could stop a bull. She had a sharp wit and when she whispered all the lewd acts she wanted to commit in bed with me, I was stricken helpless.
If it were just that, all would be good. But it wasn't. It was Jilian's father. We met only briefly, but the death stare he gave me when he saw us hand-in-hand should have be warning enough.
I don't have proof, but I just know he was the one who set all this up. This cult. My capture. My execution. What sort of anti-literature cult would make their home in Moonglow, of all places? And then come after me? A romance novelist? Granted, my works may some day belong in a museum, but what of all those scholars at the Lycaeum? The literal seat of knowledge in Britannia?
No, dear reader.. if anyone is reading this at all... there's No "men of the woods". These are paid thugs with one goal: kill their quarry and cover up their tracks.
I fear for any I've called friend, including Governor Janice, who given so much, and whose heart I've surely broken. I don't know that these Idiotic goons will stop with me.
***
Page 8:
And now you know how I Came to be in this situation. If you're seeing this, maybe there's still time.
"Gots us a boat to catch, we does." the captor had said. That was a few days ago. It's been a trek through the jungle and a boat rider later. Looking around, I can see we are on the southern half of Moonglow.
I sense I'm almost Out of time. I hope this story is found before it's too late.
I should mention before I forget! Know that there are other pages! I can't keep a journal on me, lest these captors burn it. There's more - this is not just a single Random musing. I toss them to the winds and Pray they're found.
***
Page 9:
They're taking me north in the Gray dawn. A pitiful Retch am I.. I'm walking to my death. I see the smoke of A Moonglow chimney in the distance.
I pray that the Virtues preserve me and you forgive me for what I've done.
***
Page X:
Janice if this somehow makes it to you.. or anyone Else... goodbye. Remember me for the good I've done, Not the evils.
Page 1:
IN the blackness I look blindly for a heart beat. Soak in the nothing. There's only the dark. No memories, no mistakes, no one hurt. But we're on the move, and I can't stay.
I pull my hands away from my face. My captors are goading me with smoldering sticks from their fire. "Get up, author," one says to me. "Time we's a movin on. Gots us a boat to catch, we does." That accent; that poor grammar... what a charade. These goons aren't who they say they are. But I'll get to that. Assuming I don't die first. Assuming anyone reads these scattered notes.
My name is JL Polstan, and I'm walking to my execution.
***
Page 2:
My story began some years ago in Jhelom's Horse's Head tavern. She was in her mid 40s. Hair black as the Vast night sky, but with A streak of gray down her left cheek. When She walked in, the air went cold. She radiated authority and control. There was at least 20 years between us, but I knew I had to warm her cold heart. I was fire and she was water, and together we could blanket Britannia in steam.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I get up. Walk over. I lean against the counter next to her. Deciding a stern, noble, no-nonsense woman like her would enjoy whiskey, I order one and introduce myself.
***
Page 3:
We roll, moaning into each others' ears. Our passion burns the very skin between Our loins. The sheets of the bed Rage with fire, so we toss Them aside, making love, exposed, in the cool moonlight. I see meaning beneath me as I look into her eyes. Life seems complete, whole.
***
Page 4:
Weeks pass and we decide to live together in a small house in Jhelom. I write in solitude during the days and make love in the quiet hours of the night. She doesn't know it yet, but my book sales are paying for a quaint retreat northwest of Vesper.
The months drift by and the fiery passion burns on. Must all stories end?
Once upon a time, perhaps I would have said no. In my youth, I dabbled in necromantic magic.. exploring the art of Ressurecting the dead; controlling the undead; becoming a lich through powerful spells... all that nonsense. I say nonsense, because it's all behind me. I discovered my gift for writing when I penned a quaint poem for a lovely blonde lass in Britain. I like the idea of living forever, but writing seemed like the Easier path.
I'm getting Lost and sidetracked again. Let me tell you about that house... so many fond memories there. Before the story was over.
***
Page 5:
The house that love built. That's what we call our getaway. With a cold, dark dungeon-like chamber in the basement in which we explore our darker, Uncouth fantasies. The only mar on the home was an Uninstalled lock on our love dungeon door. I thought I could handle it myself, but I mistakenly reversed it... it locks from the outside... which I Suppose gives our nights together an air of taboo.
Ah but those were better days. Before this cult. Before my ego got the better of me.
***
Page 6:
Oh the parade of women. With fame comes its own Baggage. You write A story about a man with a pirate's charm, a rogue's swagger, and a prince's smile.. and suddenly women think you are that character. I'm not! I wasn't! I never will be. Each time I did a book signing, I protested when any Lady flirted with me, tried to touch me, showed me something she shouldn't have. But after the dozenth time, I caved.
I don't remember which woman was first. The first time I cheated on Janice feels like a century ago. Believe me reader, if I could take it all back, I would. But seeing as how these captors are threatening to hang me, I don't think I'll be getting that chance.
I must have slept with fifty women. But it was the last one who would be my death sentence.
***
Page 7:
Her name was Jilian. I Met her a book signing in New Magincia. She had piercing green eyes and A smile that could stop a bull. She had a sharp wit and when she whispered all the lewd acts she wanted to commit in bed with me, I was stricken helpless.
If it were just that, all would be good. But it wasn't. It was Jilian's father. We met only briefly, but the death stare he gave me when he saw us hand-in-hand should have be warning enough.
I don't have proof, but I just know he was the one who set all this up. This cult. My capture. My execution. What sort of anti-literature cult would make their home in Moonglow, of all places? And then come after me? A romance novelist? Granted, my works may some day belong in a museum, but what of all those scholars at the Lycaeum? The literal seat of knowledge in Britannia?
No, dear reader.. if anyone is reading this at all... there's No "men of the woods". These are paid thugs with one goal: kill their quarry and cover up their tracks.
I fear for any I've called friend, including Governor Janice, who given so much, and whose heart I've surely broken. I don't know that these Idiotic goons will stop with me.
***
Page 8:
And now you know how I Came to be in this situation. If you're seeing this, maybe there's still time.
"Gots us a boat to catch, we does." the captor had said. That was a few days ago. It's been a trek through the jungle and a boat rider later. Looking around, I can see we are on the southern half of Moonglow.
I sense I'm almost Out of time. I hope this story is found before it's too late.
I should mention before I forget! Know that there are other pages! I can't keep a journal on me, lest these captors burn it. There's more - this is not just a single Random musing. I toss them to the winds and Pray they're found.
***
Page 9:
They're taking me north in the Gray dawn. A pitiful Retch am I.. I'm walking to my death. I see the smoke of A Moonglow chimney in the distance.
I pray that the Virtues preserve me and you forgive me for what I've done.
***
Page X:
Janice if this somehow makes it to you.. or anyone Else... goodbye. Remember me for the good I've done, Not the evils.
Last edited: