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Post by Lugwy on Nov 26, 2016 23:35:00 GMT -5
Saturday, November 26, 1764 A long time ago, there was a woman who lived in a poor and shabby, but honest town. Day by day, this town laboured to pay their people and the dues owed them their lord. They kept their heads down and struggled to make their living, while surviving raids from bandits who would travel up and down the road, waylaying travelers for their wares. The woman made her living as a hunter, which obligated her to travel far and wide from her home to provide food for her family.
One day, as she was returning, the woman came across a man lying off to the side of the road. His clothes were in tatters, and he was gravely wounded. Despite her fear of finding the one responsible for the man's injuries, she took him in and made the long journey back to her town to nurse him to health.
For months the woman tended the man's injuries and kept him company as he recovered. He did not speak much of himself but was willing to talk of many other things to the woman, and the woman was impressed and enchanted with the man's knowledge. From this man, the woman learned of many things even she, in her travels, could not have fathomed. And the man, in turn, learned many things of the town that he was not aware of.
One day, the man packed his goods and went to leave, thanking the woman and the town for their hospitality. The woman was tearful, but wished him well and for him to visit again.
"I will," the man said, smiling.
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Post by Lugwy on Nov 28, 2016 0:10:02 GMT -5
Sunday, November 27, 1764 In the town, weeks passed, which turned to months, which turned to years. The people forgot about their visitor, save for the woman who tended him, who would watch the horizon every morning for the man's approach, and watch for him when she returned, seeking his familiar figure beside her door. Yet he never arrived, and people would tell her to forget about him, and in time, she no longer looked for the man when she left and when she arrived.
The years pass, and the woman's hair started to grey, though her strength and skill remained, and in time she took on the mantle of mayor when the old one passed. She took on the responsibility to lead the town's progress and to teach the young men and women her trade, and watched as they grew into worthy hunters themselves. Sometimes, her eyes would draw to the horizon, but she had long forgotten, until the day the horsemen arrived.
Half a score of mounted men descended upon the outskirts of the town, horses armoured and gilded, weapons visible but sheathed. The riders stopped several yards from the frightened townspeople, and one of the horses stepped forward.
"Who here leads this town?" The helmed figure booms. Hands push the woman forward until she stands at the fore, only a few paces before the mounted man. Silence reigned for a long moment until the man removed his helm, revealing the face of the man who the woman had tended so many years before, now graven with wrinkles and grey hair, but the eyes laughed as ever.
"My old friend!" He cries, and he dismounts his horse to clasp the woman's hand. As stunned silence made way for cheers, the wind seemed to howl with their exultation.
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Post by Lugwy on Dec 5, 2016 17:16:01 GMT -5
December 5, 1764 The man was the heir, and in time became a king, with the loyal woman by his side as a knight and vassal. While rumours abounded that the two were romantically involved on the side, they also agreed that their new lord ruled well, and in time the land knew prosperity. Though custom dictated the man take another as his wife, for the woman was of low born, only the woman knew his innermost secrets and struggles, and helped him the best she could with her friend's family.
As the years passed, though, the harshness of rule began to overtake them. The benevolent king became a tyrant, withholding the blessings he used to give in abundance. The people struggled in dissatisfaction, which turned to uprising as their pleas fell on deaf ears. Under the lord's command, the woman went out to keep order among the subjects, a command that dragged her steps as time went on.
One day, the woman returned to her king's room, finished with the task her liege had given her. A wind from an open window blew at her snowy locks, and her sword dripped still-red with the blood of the king's wife and only son. She went to the throne where the king sat, and went down on one knee.
"I will not disobey you," the woman began, her voice breaking, "but neither can I follow your commands any more. Please, as a final boon between friends, release me from your service." She holds up the bloodied sword.
Wordlessly, the king rose to his feet and approached, taking the sword from the woman's hand. He looked at it, then lifted it up high.
As the sword fell, a wind could be heard to blow across the land, howling as the day it did when an heir and a huntress embraced as old friends.
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Post by Lugwy on Feb 19, 2017 16:45:15 GMT -5
This entry does not appear to be written in the usual handwriting at all. Rather, it appears to be a page torn off from some kind of book and pinned to the journal. Somewhere in the world, there is an outraged librarian swearing to pay this sacrilege in blood.
A thirstful whore with lips agasm Her web unspundled, left to blight
A fortrace drowning in the blasm Her walls vansieged by falseful mite
An anvil tyed by lock and lash Her works abounding like the hare
An icy love by fire knashed Her tears for him a dulcy aere
A farewell kiss from lealfast drake Her end a cork pulled from the wine
Which falls in gemel angels' wake And reddens this, our dearthly stein
Or will the flower splay her flaps Contract and birth a world defaced?
Or will her thornish sword be snapt The flower broken for the vase?
Or will the songstyr dance and scend A eulogy beneath her boots?
The world will meet a tangled end Betwixt its voul, labrynthin roots
When the torn-off page is lifted, the actual journal page shows some unciphered text, preceded with a few bits of gibberish as if the writer had tried to code but gave up shortly afterwards.
January 1, 1765 Maybe one day you'll forgive me. Better that you think us dead than live with false hope or a disappointment. I've made a lot of mistakes and done a lot of things you never wanted me to do.
Sorry for lying to you, but I couldn't have done anything else. Maybe you'll have to close up in another year from now. Maybe one day you'll know the truth and die of heartbreak afterwards. If the saints are listening, I hope they give you rest.
If you're still alive, don't look for me. It's too dangerous and you'll only regret it. But you won't listen, will you? I took after you the most, so I can guess what you'll do. Maybe Mat or some other God's going to think it a fine joke for me to have to identify your corpse one day.
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Post by Lugwy on Jul 28, 2017 3:55:38 GMT -5
Saturday, April 29th, 1765 Qnlyoc ft g rerg twrnkn git qomyo hqws g ecwcyaf rqmoh qm g ethctak ihcv g ebggneg kv g nethgech cnc getqog cth g remyeth qwgh ts. Thgec ctkqns oqfom yoc ssqck ct g sehcvg esh cpg deth g efctgeq foqn genct kqn ofqrob gtt g reqrow qrsg, ebw tuktik sith geb wskng sseqfo g qdocnda nqtom kn getqoj wdg g ewhkch igndeth g krikntgrf gr gncg ewkll il g cdatq. Kihcv geb g gnerg pck difqrom yopq qrl yosp g ntetk mgethgr g, ebw tuth g eqnlyor gwc rdsaqfos wbst cnc g ecrgec qkn icndath gek nqwl gdg geth ctacath rqn g ergmckn sir g stkn giwp qnoscnd.
Fq qlsowkll irgm cknifq qls. Ktik sicwrk qws utqosg geh qwosk mklcrath get g mplc raksit qomg, ecam krrq roqfocc tk qnsocn dac qns g qwgnc gs. Wgecr gepr qwd uwqm g newhqoh cvg elqsto whctawc sad g craf rqm ocmbk tkqnoc ndasglfks hn gss, ecnday g tewgeh cvg ewcl kgdeq wrus g pcrctgew cys. Pgr hcpsash ged g spksg semg enqtomg rglyef qrom yoh crshaw qrdsobwtu fqroth g emkrr qrokihql dowput qwcrd sah g refccg. Wgl kngsseh kdkn gib g ngcthath geshkn kn givgn g greqfop wrkty, ilk kg ecacqmf qrtkn gib lcnk g tewcrdkn giqf focabqq g gym cnewnd greth gebgd.
Tqoh gregy g sekicmaca brqk gned qll, owhk chikifkn dicp prq prkctg. Knih g rercvkng sish geb glkgv g dekimcyab gem cdgewh qlg, eth qwghuki qw g stkqnowh ctath ksi mgcn safqrom yoc qntk nw g delkvkng, icn damyat gnd g ncyet qor wnuknt qotyp g selkkgeh grecn dath gescgg. Kid qonqtok nt g ndetqop cyac naw nknqwnop rkc get qofkn diqwt. Kihcv gegkv g negnqw ghufl g shecndab lqqd ofqrom yoc nswgrel qn g ocgq.
Hget klligrk g vgs, edgm cndkn girg pcymgn tetqwcrd sath gemgss gng g refqroth geprkc gekih cvg ewkll knglyip ckd. Pgrh cpsaktik sib g ttgreth ctah geksilg ftet qochcs g ehksi qwnojws tkcg.
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