Neyaa

Late into the night Seaver talked with Calilla Yishai, as he so often has in recent times. He spoke with her of his innermost thoughts, there the Variag listened to him as she does with her usual patience and willingness to lend a friendly ear.

What the hell is wrong with me?  I should never have left the happy group like this.  Then again, Dryn gets a new haircut, Bryn and Conrob return from their getaway, Raven and Ithy are getting married, and all I can think about is how the father who left me to rot in jail as a young boy is known to those he meets as a hero.  

Seaver languished within the confines of his richly adorned abode, fingers gripping tightly a bottle of rum. A familiar prop, ever at his side following the days in which he left his fiancé Erinwyn. He tipped his head back to drink of it. His mind clouded with it's potency. Yet no matter how much he would seem to consume it would never seem to ease his pain, only numb it for a time.

Yesterday was blessedly peaceful and quiet, free of trouble and tragedy. If only more days could be so. 

I cannot stop shaking, I must have sat here for a good hour or more simply shaking. Was this courage, was this confronting my fate and accepting it no matter the course it takes? I should have stayed at home. I do not know what possessed me to go there that night. It was the wrong time. The wrong place. Gods, I should leave this land. The children, oh gods the children. And the woman's nursemaid. They heard us, they heard us yelling I am sure of it.

The days go by, the celebration of the Captain's daughter and her Dalesman draws closer. I am certain this occasion will fill my coffers just nicely if it goes as planned.

Written on the other side of the parchment in an almost hurried manner.

I suppose you are half-expecting to read that there has been another significant jump in time given the content of the last page but I must dissappoint you. I am here in my study, quill in hand.

I had intended to write of more mundane matters this entry, instead I find myself wetting the quill with which I hold and simply staring at a blank page. By the time I have put pen to paper it has needed a fresh application more than once. My absence was supposed to put distance between us. Yet it has not. This woman of Edoras has been anything but distant over the past month.

Left to the sands at such a young age as the Variag describes it, abandoned by her mother whom her master later bid her to murder in order to prove her worth and her loyalty. It is perhaps unsurprising that the dark skinned beauty I have come to know is so cold. Unfeeling. And yet sympathy stays my blade. I have for long enough in the past played judge, jury and executioner when the darkness took me. At first hunting down individuals myself. Then in the hiring of a murderer I thought I could control when my face had begun to be too well known to do so effectively.