An Ink-Stained Diary

[Techne]

The soft scratches of ink upon vellum can be heard in the dark corners of Castle Darrowdeep, a woman penning her thoughts down to the lonely company of a single candle. No date is visible upon the page, the book appearing to simply be a stream of consciousness.

These days trapped in the castle, stuck fighting with my own thoughts, my own mind. My own shadow. They call it cabin fever when you start to hallucinate things. See shadows dancing along the walls, notice things that aren't there. All a result of being cooped up in one place for far too long. But does that count if you've been seeing that for months on end? When you were walking around along the dirt road to Burrowhome? When you were climbing those Thousand Steps all the way to Brogendenstein? When you're trying to bribe Bernard to lower the gate for the fifth time this day because you've gone on so many walks to clear your head?

So is this cabin fever of me being locked inside my own head? Or is this a result of something far worse? It's getting harder and harder to fight against it. The shadow. This thing that I've been told, or it's been suggested by others, that it's draining me emotionally. Every worry, every fear, every shred of anger or sadness feeds it. And it always feels like its overbearing me now. I feel no better than a mule being asked to pull a cart full of thirty well-fed pigs.

I just want to sleep. Sleep is getting harder and harder to come by now. May my mother forgive me for ever touching that book...

[Techne]

The dark haired half-elf could be seen asleep at the table with the single candle, hand twitching from time to time. A pen was in her hand, a line dragging down the vellum page, a journal entry interrupted solely by exhaustion. The entry was later than the first, but still... there was a lack of date.

I wish only for some semblance of sleep now. A short nap of thirty minutes would even suffice. Buthe "t" would drag on for a while, suggesting the woman dozed off for a bit. It... is so hard to stay awake. But I feel restless and exhausted even when I do find sleep, beset by nightmares and other horrid things. The whispers seem to ensure I have no quiet time alone.

I have naught to thank except those here in the keep itself. Listening to them, talking with them. It allows me a chance to drown out those noises. I dee---

The pen would slide itself from the sleeping Gwenneth's hand, a creeping shadowy hand drifting from the woman's form as it wrote upon the vellum.

Sleep now. I'll need your energy for things much, much later...

The pen would drop onto the journal, splattered small ink spots on the page.

[Techne]

The sound of an ink pen scratching upon vellum could be heard once again in the dark castle hallways. The half-elf writes with a renewed vigor, her pen strokes threatening to tear the fragile vellum apart at the pen's nib tried its best to keep up with the woman's writing...

I finally found someone, thanks to the help of Madame Saelynn, to do something to alleviate my symptoms. Or at least he attempted to. To spare his identity, I won't write his name down so that any that might try to sneak and read this journal A note to the side is made listing a set of names will not know of this. And... I think it worked. But I still feel odd. Off, even. As if... I don't know. I'm forgetting things. Today I had asked Kortigan twelve times if I had had my rations from him today. I could tell he was getting annoyed. I've also been feeling... irritable. As if anything someone does annoys the hells out of me.

And... speaking of annoyed... ever since this damned stupid thing has come up... I'm being passed for promotions. Others are doing things about the keep, assisting and being useful and I'm sitting on my butt doing nothing. I want to blame someone for this. Anyone. Just... piking anyone at this point. I've been here for quite some time, yet I... I feel like I'm just Lord Kael'avin's pet at times. Sure he calls me his 'daughter'... and I adore him like a father. But I still feel like I will never get a chance to prove myself as something more and forever be stuck in this limbo of just... being a scout.

Every outing the others have I have to say 'no'. Every walk outside I have to ask if they're going anywhere dangerous. Every time we go into battle I have to ask someone to protect me because gods forbid I accidentally use my powers and feed them with all the terrible emotions that come from the stress of battle! I'm just piking tired of this all. I want to do things and be a part of this keep. I want this to be piking over so that I don't feel like an alien in the keep I call home.

The pen is thrust into the wood of the table, snapping it. Frustrated tears roll down the woman's face as she begins to walk away into the darkness of the keep. A shadowy hand extinguishes the candle once she is gone.

[Techne]

This night, no candlelight could be seen lighting the lonely corner in the keep. Yet the sound of pen scratching on vellum was still heard softly. If one had cared to look, a pair of mis-colored motes of light could be seen in the dark.

I messed up. I messed up and messed up yet again. I had decided that perhaps it was a good thing to leave the keep for just a moment, to air my thoughts and enjoy the company of the others of the keep. Instead, I ended up charging recklessly into battle, nearly getting myself killed and I summoned that despicable reflection of myself. Then I was... bombarded by nothing but hate and anger and how much I just wanted to leave them all to their own devices. Who cared if I had left them to find for themselves against the hoards of the Black Orcs?

I ended up apologizing but why can't I shake the feeling like I only half mean it? I truly feel bad but at the same time... I'm still angry at them. Many in the keep offered their assistance. But I feel like there isn't any progress being made. And sometimes I feel like I'm an entirely new person, free from this presence that I know I can see but I can't see it but I can feel it standing behind me at all times and A line of text is scratched out, assumedly continuing the rambling thoughts scribbled on the page. -done. I'm scared and I'm done with this.