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[Hray 7th]

Hray 7th, or so I am told

After the long drudge through miserable ash I've arrived at the gates of what they called Ephia's Well. Not sure it was worth surviving the journey, but my 'Luck' keeps as it always does, and so here I am.

The outskirts were riddled with signs to make the refugees feel 'welcome.' Charming boards splattered with blood offering a few warnings to would-be raiders. And another that itched the hollow of my eye, something along the lines of 'If you don't have coin, feel free to die out here instead.'

Nothing new for coinless rogues.

However... contre contry contrary to the portends outside, when I entered the palace I was greeted by half a dozen pale scribes droning their practised receptions and condolences for my struggles. Their eyes looked about as dead as mine, those toothless grins of theirs sent bile to the back of my throat. One of their number shuffled over to offer me a handful of coins, before scurrying back to gloat of charity to their superiors.

But should I care? Pride won't quench my thirst, and this looks like more than enough for a bottle of spirits.

Maybe I'll drown myself in one tonight.

A shabby journal the cover of which was made from a dour looking leather, kept shut by a frayed length of twine. Unadorned and undecorated save for the image of a bird's head, crudely scratched into a corner of the leather.

The texts held within were written by an unpractised hand. With many words inked over or incomprehensible, as if the author was re-learning how to write.

Its entries ranged from mundane accountings like the day's earnings to personal thoughts, recountings and vague prayers. the dates of which appear random at times and not entirely linear.