Regisfall

Day 4

The sun bleeds orange into the eastern waters as I write this, my back pressed against J.B.'s warm, rumbling form. His snores shake through me like distant thunder—a comforting sound after today's frustrations. Ssath'lithal has found her evening perch on a driftwood log, tasting the salt air with lazy flicks of her tongue.

Word reached me today of giant spiders plaguing the roads near Edana, along with a bounty posted for some ratman called Kritchek. Simple enough work, or so I thought. When I arrived at Edana's gates seeking more details, two human guards turned me away without explanation. Something about tensions between their city and Arandor—politics I neither understand nor care to. The way their eyes followed Ssath'lithal's movements, hands drifting to weapon hilts, told me my companions were as unwelcome as I was.

I find myself staring at my wrists as I write, the pale scars catching the dying light. I've seen what both sides of any conflict are capable of when they believe their cause just. The cruelty that men inflict upon each other in the name of righteousness and greed... it never changes.

This is why I prefer the company of beasts. Animals are honest in their intentions. J.B. wants food, warmth, and safety. Ssath'lithal seeks sun-warmed stones and the occasional hunt. No lies, no politics, no chains disguised as duty.

The wilderness makes more sense than civilization ever will.

Stumbled across something today that made my blood run cold. Black bandanas. The Consortium, they call themselves now. After all these years, I finally have a name for my captors.

Ith'rintell's hand trembled as he unwound the black fabric from around his palm, the bandana he'd taken from one of their scouts. The familiar weave brought back the stench of the ship's hold, the creak of chains, the—

He forced himself to breathe. Looking down at his wrist where the cloth had been wrapped, the old manacle scars were visible, but beneath them, barely faded after all this time, was the brand they'd burned into his flesh. The number 9. He'd almost forgotten it was there.



Met two fine folks in the tavern today. Strange how a simple conversation over dinner can lift spirits I thought permanently darkened. Things in these new lands had seemed bleak for a while, but there's something here in Arandor—a sense of community I've never experienced. It's... unsettling in its warmth.

Bought a house today. Actual walls, a roof, a door with a lock I control.


But as night fell, Ith'rintell found himself pacing the small rooms, his chest tight. The walls felt too close, too much like... other walls. Other rooms where freedom was just a memory.

With a frustrated sigh, he grabbed his sleeping roll from the floor and headed outside. The porch overlooked the eastern waters, and here—here he could breathe. J.B. settled beside him with a contented grunt while Ssath'lithal draped herself across his shoulders, her cool scales a familiar comfort.


The stars are clearer from out here anyway. Perhaps home isn't about walls—it's about choosing where you rest your head, and who keeps watch while you sleep.