A small, fresh tome is bought from the local bookshop. The owner seems to keep it on himself at all times, and the tome is enchanted with gylphs, wards and other arcane abilities to prevent it from being stolen easily.

Welcome, my New Journal, to my New Life.

Sanctuary. I've been here for around... four years or so? five? I stopped counting. I've lost that, along with parts of my memory, my sanity, my friends, my belongings and most importantly... my will to live.

But I'll squelch this bickering about myself and talk about you. You, my humble journal, will record my arcane advancements and special happenings. Thoughts will not be spilt here, for I mostly keep them to myself - but perhaps the wandering of the mind and wondering "what about the future?" - That could be glimpsed into.

The Year of Monkey Storms - I

The Spellguard are at it, as usual, and now they have Animatrons that patrol the streets and scream out their metallic screeches. Not much has changed about it, after about a year and a half I was away (or so - could be even ten, but that sounds too much.) aside from council members that are about and do things more actively. I noticed the Watch has became a bit more brutal, maybe open-minded about things, and its members actually give a flying fleck about people in Lower. I wonder if I could use this to my advantage, somehow...

People come in and out of the Last Stand, the place that replaced the [Name I Forgot] that stood before that after an attack of some sort. It looks generally nicer, though, if somewhat darker and lacking the Grotto. No matter, though. A good place as any to drink rothe soup with fungi.

Oh, yes, of course, good thing I remembered. The "Arcane Syndicate" is now my so-called 'Faction' or the group I'm associated with. And it seems open and free enough, especially without signing on anything, that it just might fit me. Currently it deals with alchemical components and alchemy in general along with wands and trade of magical items, but I can see the potential growing - even if I have to nurture it myself, somehow.

I wonder if we have a fitting hat?

----

Not a single friend that I remember around. I heard Adelia Tyrell might be somewhere in Lower, but the place mentioned is filled with blood, gore and rotten turnips. The comrades that accompanied me to the Plunge of Faith into the surface have either died, gotten magically old and retired to New Dunwarren, or decided I'm not a good enough friend to keep in touch with. Bastards. The old adventuring group I was with? gone, along with whatever research it worked upon. Eric, Jasper, Linda, Sinalee, Nightshade... those names no longer have an owner, and if it does, he's either dead or lost.

I'd be sad for loss in touch or in life, but I'm rarely surprised. I think I'm around 100 years old now or something of the sort, so I'm getting old. Ha-ha-ha.

The dwarven clan and the ice-cube halfling woman seem to be my only chances of having a good conversation, but both are busy with their own matters. Their minds are unlike mine, but I'm not picky when the only thing I can talk with is a flying bob of positive energy that asks me about Purple Crystals all the time and tries to hug them if they're in the vicinity of the conversation.

NOTE: Tell Bliss to STOP doing that.

- Trinsel