And it all came down to the final blow, the strike that caused to end the life of yet another target. Another human being with all rights to live, in the eyes of the wise.
I would not refer to it as a diary, more like a logbook of memorable occurrences . A diary one would write in daily, which I do not. We can call it a logbook of sanity, as above all else I have to try to hold on to the thought that I am not entirely losing my mind with the current, stressful profession.
It has been several days now since the return of my sister, Nacrissa. I rejoiced in her arrival and in-between this gnawing shadow that lurks deeply on the inside, there was this little moment of perfection. I am sure Threland felt the same way. She is our sister, and by all the divines shall we protect her from harm, my brother and I.
Speaking, or in my case writing of him, Threland is not of my concern. He seems to have achieved all a man can dream off; he is happy, raises crops and soon a family. Family indeed, I would gladly hand in every wench I have ever had just to spend an evening with that wife of his, such an appearance. Though, I shouldn’t write about that and Threland, if you ever read this, ensure that you warn me before you start throwing the fists.
I wish I could tell them I gave up the watcher’s job, but in fact I got revoked from my position because I may have caused some trouble here and there. Nonsense, as if any soul would bother. Now I have lost my tedious little job to veil my current, now more open, profession. Indeed, I have decided to resort to the only thing I am good with, my blade. I would rather get a decent price for splitting some guts instead of having to do it for an old mayor that has never paid me more than a wrinkly handful of silvers to feed myself during the cold months. Greedy bastard.
How I ended up with a soon to be expanded family, people caring for me and having a more frowned upon job than a dung boy, I have no idea. I was expecting a tavern wench and a good pint of mead, but instead I will have to live my life as I have always did; without any decent motivation or goal. Only survival matters to me. And, now that we’re being all sentimental over a diary I’ll clear my heart. If I would do that verbally, those who’d listen would laugh their impolite rears off.
I do care about my brother and sister, but the sister the most. I still remember father teaching us that boys will be men and I am sure Threland has become a man now, a silly one, but a man. As for the sister, I hope one day a brigand will find this and know that he will end up with a spear shoved up his heart for laying a finger upon her. I suppose she doesn’t take my jests seriously, and that she knows this.
