This is a locked and bound journal kept beneath Sennik's bed. On the front of the leatherbound, black diary are the thick, bold words: Ever Watchful.

I’m not a damned politician. When I signed up with the Associates, I learned that the hard way. I piss people off, for good reason. I’m not one for small talk. These politicians are the worst, too. Pandering to votes, pandering to us. I didn’t sign on for it.

But I’ve got no damn choice.

I’m not going to let them destroy Sanctuary. They’ll ruin everything, don’t they know? The people can hardly be expected to elect their own leaders. Too much responsibility. Too much disorder. Already rebels feel safe attacking us. What next, the druids? Our enemies become more numerous and more emboldened as they watch chaos break out.

If Reev had his way we’d be on a battlefield. We’d be dead outside the gates of Traensyr, dead on their battlefield. I could see it in his smug face. As he berated me on "battlefield tactics" and the "Spellguard’s cowardice", I saw no scars marring his proud features. He had never been a slave.

He’s never felt the hot lash of a slaver’s whip. The humiliation of their eyes searing your naked flesh. It would serve him some damned good. But not even he deserves that. The idiot has no idea how much he has to lose. He’s got no idea how much the Spellguard is responsible for the little security he has left. As much as I want to teach him a lesson, I cannot. I won’t let Sanctuary suffer for his failings.

Yet even in this chaos the Vigilant One has made my path clear. I must learn more of our enemies. All of them. I must stop Reev. I must stop those druids. I must stop the rebels.

I must know my foes, and Sanctuary will be safer for it.

First of Ches, Year 152 2. Protect the weak, poor, injured, and young, and do not sacrifice them for others or yourself: There are no innocents in Sanctuary

If I'm not serving the weak, innocent and downtrodden, who am I serving? The Spellguard? The city?

I've learned the hard way that no one here is innocent. Not the bastard children in the orphanage, nor little "Annabelle". No, they're all corrupt, evil, and desperate. But does it matter if they're innocent? They are still weak and pathetic, even if they're not innocent. Hell, everyone down here is weak.

As I watched Annabelle standing there, I knew she would kill the slaves. Young children, weak and helpless people, subject to the whims of corrupt slavers and idiotic doped up girls. I knew what I had to do then, but I hesitated. I refrained. As the chaos unfolded and I watched their bodies burn and crisp from the explosion, I felt nothing. Not a pang of regret nor remorse. Without a second thought, I nodded in vague agreement as the idiot barbarian ranted about how we had no choice, as that pathetic druid yammered about the inevitability of death. Their deaths weren't inevitable. They weren't. And as I realize this, I realize a simple truth.

I'm no longer serving them.

If I'm not serving the weak, how am I any better than a servant of Bane or Cyric? I subject the Spellguard's rule on Sanctuary to protect it, or at least that's what I tell myself. Without that rationalization, I'm left with nothing. If I abandon my sacred duty I'm the same as the rest of them. Just another fool with delusions of grandeur, with an obsession with power.

Damn Criler. He's making my life more difficult. Since he began bombarding me with his sloppy half-drunken letters, I've actually let a few of his ideas sink in. What if I'm not serving them? But I know I can't give it too much thought. Since when do I allow drunkards to have so much power over me? If I am to do my duty, I am obligated to protect everyone, even Criler. They're all weak. They're all pathetic. I'm not like the rest of these power-crazed fools because I know my dream.

Every weak bastard in Sanctuary will receive the protection of the Machine, whether they want it or not. The fruition of our plans is nigh, and I will watch Criler die a painful death for jeapordizing those plans.

The safety of the weak remains my paramount concern.

Ches 4th, Year 152 3. Careful planning always defeats rushed actions in the end: Vigilance Rewarded

Criler,

You're dead now, just like your master is, and I couldn't care less. Every last one of your kind is doomed to fail. You were a criminal, an underdubber as you so eloquently put it. You think I'm misguided? Look at all you've accomplished for Sanctuary during your tenure here. How many lives have you saved? How can you have the audacity to call us misguided when you don't have a heroic deed to your name. Oh, and I don't count attacking an unarmed Spellguard Associate as heroic. You die a drunken, stupid lout who threatened everything that we hold dear through your childish crusades. You threatened safety, security, and our freedom so that you could get laid, and drink good beer. Why anyone joins your crusade is beyond me. If there's really a Way you'll never find it now, you bastard.

Even in death you haunt me. I don't know why. I don't know why I don't just let this go. You weren't particularly intelligent, or particularly kind. I showed you a goddamed act of kindness, and you betrayed me. I'm not often betrayed, Criler, but I don't know why I didn't see this coming.

I thought you were more than what you are, I guess. That's why I'm still pondering, musing over your sad life. What you've done only illustrates the dangers of the Seekers, the Way, and your foolish dream. You were consumed with desperation to find a Way that probably doesn't exist. You were so desperate that you'd kill me, a man you'd never met before, just to prove to your superiors that you were tough.

You mocked my faith in Helm, Criler, and I can forgive you for that, even if I cannot forgive you for your other crimes. You could never understand vigilance in your desperation. You loved me because I wasn't desperate. I wasn't a fool racing through this town to escape. I make this place better every single goddamed day, and unlike you I don't need people to bow to me, or cater to me, or thank me. I know what I'm doing is right without playing to the fickle wants and desires of the selfish masses.

Why do you think your friends stay in Sewer Town? They don't relish freedom, or whatever romantisized ideal you've espoused. They're blatent criminals, and they want a place to hide from the law. They're paranoid idiots who think that Starag was an animatron, or that Councilors with five letters in their names are tools of the Spellguard. They're your intellectual equivelant, and that's why I'm not buying in to that garbage you fed me before. Believing the Machine will destroy us all is no more rational than believing Starag was an animatron. Yet you predicated all of your beliefs on that simple, stupid belief.

You're dead now, and I live on. Your dream is dead now, and mine lives on. The Way is dead, you are dead, a Seeker is dead and I will find the rest soon enough. There is no place here for rebels, Criler of Montgomery Ubel. There's no place here for self-righteous, self-loving, self-deprecating idiots like you. You may have loved me, but it was unrequited. You die alone, loved by those too fickle to care beyond the next tenday. When I die, my legacy will endure.

I don't usually drink, but I'm drinking now to the death of your dream, and the continuation of mine. Goodbye, Criler.

Agent Charles Sennik