The Diary of a Chef

[knifey]

——

Nisah 8, 7789

I wonder what took me so long to get started on this. I've had this journal since I got here. When was that, the last days of Tesrin Hray? Suppose it's been more than a couple months now.

We'll call it acclimating.

Ephia's Well has been quite the place to call home after all.

Or maybe it's because - [The pen lingers on the page.]

Acclimating.

I'm feeling better. It's a new year and there are new things to look forward to.

——

I have more friends than ever now - which sounds like a lot, but it just means more than two. But I also have a place to call home.

Home.

This war started long before I arrived it seems - and until now I've done what I can to support the effort. I do my best to feed the refugees while the rations are ferried to the front lines. I tend to the local threats and collect supplies, handing them over to Grenth and the Duunthall. I made dishes to cool the body against the Scalding.

But it's not enough and there's more I could do. I'm no soldier, but I know how to stick my knife where it hurts the most.

I've found myself joining the offensives against the orc forts out in the Scald - to some success, but not without some new scars of my own. I'll admit, it's hot out there - but all my time working over stovetops and ovens alike has tempered me against the heat.

There is something therapeutic about it all though. Something therapeutic about War. I'm sure Agaslakku smiles down on me as I write this. Fighting to protect my home - in the wake of such overwhelming grief. By the end of it, I'm too exhausted to feel anything.

——

It's been a week. Only a week, but so much has happened.

Grief. War. Hope.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm cursed to be alone.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm better off that way.

I'll open the restaurant soon - thanks to Zina. I don't know what she did, but she secured the Palm Heights property from Cogsworth. Sometimes I think she's actually a wizard.

Casa Manta.

That's what it will be called. Named after him, obviously. I just hope it honors his legacy.

[The rough sketch of a Palm Heights restaurant - a sign reads 'Casa Manta' in a flourished style.]

——

[The penmanship becomes noticeably loose.]

It's been a week. Only a week, and the Wheel turns like nothing.

I miss him. I've been missing him - and he shows back up only to go and - [A frustrated scribble.]

It's my fault.

I just couldn't step through that door, that cursed portal into that cursed realm.

Why? Why couldn't I...

I could have saved him, I should have been there - someone who loved him at his side. It should have been me, it should have - [The ink trails, several tear drops dry into the page.]

——

Who knows how long I wandered the wastes before I arrived here. Caravan to caravan, kitchen to kitchen.

It helps to be kept around when you can cook a decent meal. But that's all I was - a decent meal.

At least, until I met her.

My first friend here in the desert. She showed me a kindness I thought was lost to the ash - consumed by necessity and survival.

At least, [A marked hesitation] until it became more.

I'm thinking about her, about the time we spent together. I'd wonder how she's doing. I'd hope she found a place for her garden. I'd wish to see her smile again.

At least, if I didn't know better.

[A small splash dries into the page. A spilled drink, clear and astringent.]

I wonder if her and Manta have met yet. Would they know? Could they?

At least, I know I won't can't forget her.

——

[An ashy stain at the top of the page, brushed away just before burning.]

I'm smoking again. She'd hate that.

But she's not here to say anything about it.

It helps, and I'm feeling a bit more creative.

I've got a new candy recipe.

Something from a dream I had.

——

[The penmanship is a mess now.]

I miss you.

I can't stop thinking about you -

since he passed - all these

memories of you.

Of us.

Maybe it's the guilt.
The circumstance.

It's all too familiar.

I miss you.

——

It's late now.

[The rest of the page is blank.]

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 9, 7789

How embarrassing. What a mess I made last night.

I started smoking again?
What was I drinking?

I can't fall into this again. Not now, not when there's so much to do. When it's all right there in the palm of my hand.

There are prizes on the horizon. Honors, titles, stipends. The culture of Ephia's Well - and I'll be it's Master Chef!

I've a name to make for myself and I'll be damned if I let that bitch her haunt me.

——

This new candy is good. And I mean it's good.

[A sticky fingertip shaped smudge stains the margin, orange-red sugar and spice residue lingers on the page.]

I went to taste it - a spark in my mouth as the spice coat melted away into the soft sweetness of the liquorice. I could feel a tingle in my finger tips and a sudden urge to run about.

Next thing you know, the whole batch was gone!

I need to be careful with these.

——

I was chatting with Haldar - he's absolutely enamored with Zina. In love even. I won't lie, I could feel the throes of jealousy creeping through my mind. To love, be loved.

He told me Ulfgrim and Baelerie got married.

How nice.

I'm happy for them. [The pen rests on the page, waiting to complete a thought.] Really.

There's some other exciting things, but I shouldn't write them down. I still don't know if Zina's a wizard or not.

Manijeh mentioned getting together, the three of us. I'd like that. I saw her name on the roster of the Gold League and she was walking with Dante - no surprise, with her working for Zina and all.

[The following text is scratched through and scribbled out, barely legible.]

We could be the Golden Girls. Or is that childish? Is three even enough to give a nickname? Do they even consider me a friend?

——

Dudley approached me in the Krak when I was talking with Haldar.

She mentioned a smith's guild in passing once. I told her I've got some experience forging and finishing knives - chef knives, butcher cleavers, pairing blades. I hadn't considered myself a smith - a chef certainly, and a chef should know everything about her tools!

She talked about meeting together, with Ulfgrim and Tryggvvi - to get this guild started proper.

I did help fix up some broken hammer - it wasn't as hard as I thought, and it came out pretty good.

I guess that makes me a smith.

One day I'll forge a knife fit for a Royal Chef.

——

[The loose penmanship begins again. The page is stained all over with sticky smudges and orange-red sugar spice.]

Fuck. This liquorice is good. I can't believe I came up with it in a dream.

I don't think she'd like it though. She never had much of a sweet tooth.

Why would I call her a bitch?

It wasn't her fault.

It wasn't her fault we got kicked out of that caravan.

Just because she said some things to be spiteful. Things I know she didn't mean.

Just because she didn't have a chance to apologize. Because she couldn't take it back.

Just because I was a bitch.

——

[The penmanship is even messier.]

I think she'd like my pretzels though.

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 10, 7789

Again?

Get your shit together Ritz.

You know what you she did.

It doesn't matter anymore. This is your home now.

I had to wash the sheets this morning. I hope the Banda don't find out and charge me a cleaning fee -  I already cleaned it myself.

I can still taste the vomit. It tasted a lot better going in than coming out.

I don't think I have the stomach to take another bite, no matter how delicious addicting it is.

It's going straight to Manijeh now - she's been great at selling my lollipops so I know she'll have no problem moving the liquorice. It's expensive business, opening a restaurant.

——

I've got the menu for the grand opening figured out:

• Wyld Salad
• Chicken Vichyssoise
• Goat Liver Stew
• Blanquette de Hare
• Lion Chop Steak
• Citrus Crème Brûlée

[A few doodles of some of the dishes are drawn to the side of the list.]

I think I'll host a private dinner first. For the League, and everything they've done to make this dream come true.

Now to figure out the furniture. Wheel above, the furniture... It'll probably cost me more than the property!

I've still got lots of work set out for me.

Get your shit together Ritz.

——

I saw something today. It really inspired me.

I went off to this valley of black ichor - a terrible place, filled with terrible things. But at the peak of this mountain, there was this tender little sapling. Doing it's best to survive grow in this dark and destitute place, surrounded by this life sucking ooze.

It had me thinking of the Wyld. How tenacious she is, and despite all the darkness that surrounds us, there's still life and beauty. There's still room to grow.

Anyways, I feel like that little sapling. Shrouded in darkness.

I'm still alive. I'm still fighting. And I'm still growing.

[A little sketch of a sapling.]

——

I ran into Grenth when we returned from the valley. It was great to see him. He seems to be in good spirits, always looking forward. I admire that in him. He fills me with hope. I'm going to host a dinner for him and the Duunthall, a thanks for their efforts in the War.

And then there was a demonstration by Cogsworth for some boots he made! It was quite impressive really. Zina's the exclusive retailer and I got one of the last pairs! There's a waiting list now - I bet I could flip mine and get a new pair when they come in. I'll have to find out when that happens. Zina'll know. [A large star is doodled here, a reminder.]

Another batch of liquorice made - but I haven't found Manijeh yet. Why do I do this to myself? I can feel my mouth start to water when I look at them, even the sound of them rustling in my pack!

[The faintest smudge in the margin.]

——

[knifey]

——

[A page is torn from the journal.]

——

Nisah 11, 7789

Maybe if I write about her in a clear state of mind.

Maybe then, I can leave it all on these pages and finally forgive myself forget her.

I don't remember how long ago it happened. Months? A Year? It doesn't matter.

It feels like yesterday.

I do remember the first time I laid eyes on her - at that crowded, makeshift caravanserai - she was dancing. A crowd of drunks and sellswords, jeering and begging for her attention as they tossed coins and favors.

Gozan stood there. Towering over the improvised stage, playing that tune of his, on that lute that always looked too small for his fingers. His stare alone kept the lusting mob at length.

I remember the look on her face as our gazes met. That alluring smirk she flashed before returning to her routine. It caught Gozan's attention. And I was soon on the receiving end of that piercing glare.

Gozan.

Gozan Kon - that magnificent stonefolk.

I hope he can forgive me.

This is stupid- [The ink is smudged, still wet, as the journal slammed shut.]

——

I went to the War Council today. At least part of it. I stood next to Cort. Durgin and Ulfgrim were nearby, and then Cogsworth showed up. Cort said I looked nice.

I'm not sure why I went. I think I just wanted an excuse to wear that fancy outfit I bought months ago. It's not as if I have much to contribute to the War.

It sounds like things are going well. Too well, even. Apparently Q'Tolip himself made an appearance - that curse that Durgin 'released' actually comes from the lake. At least that's what I heard.

The Divan is beautiful though, I don't even have words. Sublime - it's in the name after all. But it was the smell. The smoke of cigars, pipe, and mizzar. Medjools - the fancy ones. The ones covered in honey and syrup. Perfumes I've never smelled before. All of these scents competing for space in this cavernous chamber. But the victor here -

The wet sand.

The massive tactician's map, taking up the other half of this cave. Large renderings of our Great Desert - landmarks and cities, fortifications and movements. All made of sand, stone, and ash. A place to plot the War, to discuss strategy.

A place to wet the sand.

——

The restaurant is coming along nicely. I'm going to need to work a payment plan with Zina. She's already giving me a discount on some second hand stuff.

And I still need more furniture!

[The doodle of a chair, a table, and another chair - it looks like they're dancing.]

——

[A charcoal sketch, painstakingly drawn with intimate detail - the portrait of a woman glancing over her shoulder. She meets your gaze, a sand kissed complexion, eyes that see you. A performative smile - but just for a moment, a break in character. A subtle curl in the lip, a flash in the cheek. Gone in an instant.]

——

[The penmanship is a mess.]

I swear I could smell her.

I swear I could smell it.

Smoke and perfume.

Wet sand.

Her

Wet sand.

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 12, 7789

[The penmanship trembles.]

I can't get out of bed today. I'm having the worst fever. The worst nightmares.

I'm in a kitchen. It's on fire, but it's okay. I'm cooking for a King.

It's time to take the dish out of the oven, but I can't open it. I try to turn it off, but it just gets hotter.

The door won't budge, and it's time to serve the main course. The kitchen is ablaze now, the oven begins to ooze.

I'm petrified.

It oozes and oozes - a thick, viscous liquid. Like blood and molasses. A screaming hiss as smoke and steam begin to escape. The oven's maw opens - and just before I can see what's cooking -

I wake up. Tossing, drenched, and shaking.

And then again. The same nightmare. Always a moment closer, but never in view.

——

I'm putting too much pressure on myself - if I were to seek any meaning from these dreams.

I feel better already. It's just my body telling forcing me to rest. All this cooking, these dreams, ambitions.

I can't let myself burnout. I shouldn't have eaten all that liquorice.

I'm just going to rest. I'm sure I'll feel much better in the morning.

——

[The penmanship is manic.]

Can't sleep.

Can't go back.

Did you leave the oven on?

You left the oven on.

You left the OVEN on!

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 13, 7789

I feel much better this morning. Some dream I must have been having last night.

I met with Zina today. We've made an arrangement for some of the furniture. Should have it paid off sooner than later. Then after the election, a larger loan for the bar and the rest of the furniture I need.

Zina will make a great Legate.

That reminds me. I need to cast my primary. [A little star reminder.]

I met someone new today - he sold me a heavy bundle of coconuts! I can't believe it. I find one coconut, next thing you know I'm being gifted a bunch! I gave him the last of my coin, I hope it was enough. Once I make something with them, I'll be sure to give him one!

Oh. His name is Jan. I like that name. He was at the battle at Red Hill. I've only heard stories about it, and I think it happened not too long ago. Maybe the beginning of this war?

He said he just got back. I wonder how he survived. He looked very beat up. Blood worms in his arm. Now that I think about it, it looked like he was wearing Rose colors. Beat to all hell and back, but Rose colors nonetheless.

Then he said something terrifying. A meat tumor devouring the minds of the living and raising the dead under its control. It's out there and it's coming for the Well! Eventually.

He didn't make it seem very imminent.

[A weird sketch of a brain with a mouth and tentacles. A few crude zombies waltz around.]

——

I poked into the League meeting. It's settled. Zina is the Gold's candidate. Too much negative sentiment around Dante, he's not even putting himself forward. A smart move if you ask me. Then some stuff about Accord votes - but I had this nagging feeling that I left the oven on.

It wasn't.

I showed Grenth the restaurant, at least in it's current state. He's excited for me and is looking forward to it opening, maybe as much as I am. He's also planning to confront the thing that took his spark away. I'm hoping I can be there with him when it happens.

He asked me for some salty pretzel snacks. He wanted to give them out to Rhuk Nor and those fighting for the Well. I gave him a few of my steak pockets and the last of my pretzels.

I hope that Old Mine contract comes back to the board. I need some snake guts for my dough.

[A doodle of a pretzel.]

I'm keeping busy. Never enough dinar.

——

[Some sleepy penmanship follows.]

Worms in the kitchen.

Worms in the soup.

Worms in my brain.

Worms in my blood.

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 14, 7789

It was pretty quiet around the Well when I woke up. It's so hard to tell the time out here in the desert.

I had the strangest dream though. Worms? Snakes? Must've been snakes because they did put up the Old Mine contract on the board again! I probably overheard them bellowing about it in my sleep. Good thing too, because I just ran out of dough for my pretzels.

[A little drawing of a dead snake - a slack tongue with x's in place of eyes.]

——

A productive day I think. Some priority work to defend the trade routes. A tribe of goblins waylaying caravans bound for the Well - we recovered some supplies for the War, and I found another of those rings that Cort's collecting. I gave it to him, since he let me have the one that had the precise aspect I was looking for.

Cort. Cort Cadugan.

I - [The pen lingers, hesitating, before retreating.]

He's a good man, and I'm quite fond of him.

It was going to be him, Zalka, and I heading off to the Old Mine. But then she said they wouldn't take her signature, after Cort and I signed the contract. He was mad about that. I thought she might not be able to read - and just didn't know that she had already signed that contract earlier in the day. So it was just me, Cort, and a dozen or so vials.

There wasn't much in the mine, but I've got all the guts I'll need for a month's worth of pretzel dough!

Oh, and then he told me Elara is running for the Gold in the primaries! She wasn't even at the meeting! I don't think it'll matter, I think the rest of the League is behind Zina.

——

[That familiar penmanship returns.]

Caravans. Who needs them anyways.

All they ever do is carry around mysterious treasure, tempt people to commit arson burn to the ground in freak accidents, and murder the ones you love the most.

Yeah. Fuck caravans.

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 15, 7789

[Flour residue and doughy smudges dot the page.]

So much dough. So many pretzels. I love my new oven. Of course, I still spend a bit of time over at Bert's. He's got one of the few water sources around the Well after all.

But the pretzels are coming out better than ever. I can't wait to finish up the rest of the kitchen and start making some proper dishes!

I probably need to think about hiring some help. A serving hand. A bouncer? A- [The pen lingers.] sous chef.

——

I found a book today. Some nonsense about how cooking is a gateway to brooking. What a load of shit.

There's been a lot of rumors going around about brooking.

Vilia - she was killed surrounding some [A hesitation in the ink.] curious circumstances. But they say there's been an ongoing investigation, and they found a hoard of Djinn marked boxes. I trust Rhuk Nor, and if he had evidence then I guess that's that.

Grenth - Cort said that he still followed the commands of a Djinn, even after he found out it was a Djinn. But I don't know about that. He's entirely devoted to Agaslakku, and I can't imagine him ever betraying the Axe like that.

Djinn are deceivers. Preying on people's most vulnerable thoughts and desires.

That's what happened to- [The thought is retracted.] At least that's what I've heard.

I suppose Grenth's unwavering devotion to Agaslakku made for an easy target. But that doesn't make him a brooker. I'm worried for him and whatever it might want from him. I hope I have it in me to stand by his side.

I have to forget about her. I can't be made an easy target.

——

[The manic penmanship returns, this time hurried and distressed.]

Try again. Try again. Try again.

You can't keep it in your head. It makes you vulnerable.

We met. We loved. We travelled. She died.

No. That's not good enough.

All of it. You have to get all of it out.

Caravan to caravan.
Kitchen to kitchen.

She entertained. I cooked. Luxuries along the routes.

We were hired. We were sought after. We were successful.

We were so close.

Then it happened. Just like the stories. The job that's too good to pass.

Too good.

——

[The penmanship is frantic, barely legible.]

I shouldn't have gone snooping. But she shouldn't have listened to it.

Promises.

Promises in return for blood and fire.

First there was fire.
Then there was blood.

Why did she have to? We were so close.

Why did I stop her? She was so close.

She could have murdered that man and she'd still be here. But I stopped her.

So it took her instead. No bargain to be half fulfilled.

Fire and blood.

And then a glimpse into the hellscape. A door left ajar.

I thought I heard her scream my name.

But there was so much blood. So much fire. She couldn't be.

So I ran.

As the entire caravan was engulfed in blasphemous hellfire.

I ran.

It might be my fault I found it.

But -

She did it. She started it. She listened to it.

Why didn't she listen to me?

I'm no brooker.

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 16, 7789

Finally. Some rest.

Wheel above, I needed it. A quiet day for me. I have no idea what's been going on in the Well. Probably just politics.

I put my chip away and spent the whole afternoon in bed. What a luxury when it's not spent with a fever - and even then, the beds here in the Krak are a luxury of their own. At least when I think about where I'd have to sleep before.

I started to get a bit restless, so I went downstairs to check the board - some nasty pit was a priority, and it was open to everyone. I understood why as soon as we got there, truly an infestation of spiders and their kin.

Dante even decided to take a break from the politics to join us, I suppose he was having a quiet day too. We had plenty of magic to make it a quick and easy job - even with just me and Omi at the front.

Anyways, a nice quiet day for once.

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 17, 7789

More cooking. More baking. I made some bread for the refugees. It's been too long since I've made some soup for them - but it's hard. I only have so much time and so much dinar. Let alone time to make dinar.

The restaurant is expensive. The taxes alone are just more than double the rent I pay for my room. Almost shy one thousand dinar a week for everything. Not to mention - the rent is due in the middle of the week, and the taxes at the end!!! [The exclamations descend into scribbles]

——

More refugees are showing up to the Well every day. Some more useful than others - but still, I wonder. Where are they coming from? Is this brain eating tumor monster closer than I think?

I wonder if he told anyone else. Because I haven't told anyone else.

——

I spoke with Zina at an odd hour. Convenient, but odd nonetheless. I paid her back as much as I could for the furniture. She's very generous.

It sounds like the election is stressful though.

People will believe what they want to.

It's unfortunate because I've never seen Sayburgh do anything except bellow on the winds. If she wins, we'll have two absentee Legates!

I can finally feed the refugees again - with Zina's charity, it frees time to make my soup. I've been so busy lately, with earning dinar to make the restaurant come true, that I haven't had the time for charity.

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 18, 7789

Another night of actual rest. Something I needed for what's coming today.

Grenth is confronting the thing that took his spark. I don't know what to prepare for - I think it's best to prepare for anything and everything but I don't have enough coin for much more. Luckily I think I have enough.

I'm a little scared. If it's a Djinn, I-[The ink lingers.] I don't know. I don't know what I'd do. I don't want to run again. I can't run again. But I won't be alone. Grenth won't be alone. I just know we'll have most of the Well with us.

I better make sure I'm prepared.

——

It wasn't a Djinn. At least, I don't think it was one. Maybe it all really was a test from Agaslakku.

The Warrior. The Murderer. Two sides to every coin.

Just as the Wyld provides with her many bounties, so must her fields be toiled - and what was given must be reclaimed.

I wonder if it's my place to retell what happened. It was War - and I'm no warrior. Great battles against the Clans and the Sibilant. A temple - ancient beyond recognition.

Not all battles are won with force alone.

That's what it said - and it did not deceive us. In fact, it may have saved us with those words.

It wasn't a Djinn. I'm almost sure of it.

We almost lost Asherias and Haldar. I'm not sure when they went down, but we were able to bring them back, and thank the Wheel they were still alive. I was so worried - what would I tell Zina. And Asherias - [A thought unfinished.]

I'm exhausted. It's hot, and I think I'll take advantage of these restful nights while I can.

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 19, 7789

It's been three weeks. Almost three weeks, and it's happened again.

[A lone teardrop stains the page.]

Oh Grenth. You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve to die like that. Not after everything. Stabbed in the back and tossed down a chasm - hidden and hoped to never be found.

The fucking scum.

You deserved the Warrior's death. Bathed in flame and valor. I'll do everything to make sure you get the Warrior's rites.

Tonight I pray to the Wroth. I pray the spirit of vengeance finds the coward. I pray they gouge his eyes out. I pray they sever his tongue and deafen his ears. I pray a cold black existence befalls him - no light, no warmth.

Because that is what he took from this world, what he took from me. Because death is a mercy undeserved.

——

[Exhausted scribbles - hints of ash, dry blood, and dog hairs can be found scattered and stained about the page.]

The howling. The damned howling.

Suddenly everyone cares that I'm smoking.

It's not good for you.
You shouldn't do that.

Fuck them. It helps.

Silencing the dogs helped too.

Haldar and I. Just Haldar and I.

We wet the sands in his name.

It helped.

——

[A familiar penmanship returns.]

The Murderer.

Tonight I pray to The Murderer.

I pray for spilt blood.

I pray for malicious fire.

I pray to find the murderer.

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 20, 7789

I have no more tears. No more feelings.

I can't let anyone get close to me. I can't let myself get close to anyone. If I do they'll die.

It happened to her, and it's misfortune. To Manta, a coincidence. But to Grenth - I'm cursed.

I'm so sorry. It's my fault If I had known.

——

I met some new faces.

I could hear the new jobs being posted on the board - so I went downstairs to check.

Luther was appraising a would be Recluta. Didn't get his name. Big sword. Bit slow.

Nela - A proclaimed Speaker for The Wyld. Nice enough, only a day in the Well. She'll get along nice enough.

Nox - A peculiar priest of the Martyrs. There was something about him. I felt- [There's hesitation in the ink.] something. He could feel something too.

I walked them to the garden shrine, we tended the flowers. It was nice. I could feel something again.

——

[The manic penmanship appears again.]

Embers to flames.

Embers to flames.

Flames that bring light and warmth.

Flames that scorch and rebuke.

Flames to fire

Flames to fire

Fire that inspires compassion.

Fire that spurns the wicked.

There will be Fire.

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 21, 7789

[There is lethargy in the penmanship.]

I must have slept all day again. The sun looked to be rising when I finally fell asleep. Now it's dark again.

Most of my waking hours these last days have been in the dark.

Alone.

I have to be alone.

I'll go make some pretzels for the refugees. I can do that alone.

——

[Manic scribbling ensues, cigarette ash and ember stain the page.]

The sun's coming up.

He's watching me. He knows.

The murderer. I know it. I know his name.

He left things for me. He mocks me.

A confession? A trap.

The Sister knows. She told me his name.

It's him. That's why the candies-[A scribble interrupts the thought.] the candies never last that long.

He scares them away. He eats my food.

Rhuk knows. He calls his name.

The murderer.

But there's more. More that can't be penned to page.

That dream. It wasn't worms. It wasn't snakes. It was wyrms.

The sun's up now.

——

[Near illegible scratchings.]

He knows.

He watches.

The Murderer.

——

[knifey]

——

Nisah 22, 7789

[Something lingers in the penmanship, hungover.]

I need to keep busy. I've slept all day again. I can't let my thoughts engulf me. I can't be vulnerable.

My mind is aflame. Anger, vengeance, grief, despair. It clouds my thoughts. I have more important things to think about. The longer I linger here, the more I bleed. The little I'm able to get out of bed for isn't enough to pay for the restaurant, let alone the necessities.

And despite everything. Despite all these thoughts swirling about in my head - there she is. The eye of the storm. The stillness among the chaos.

That self assured smirk of hers. What does she know now?

She always knew then.

When Gozan went missing, she knew. When that smuggler was going to skip out on paying us, she knew. When I wanted to tell her how I felt, she knew.

But that night- [There's a hesitation in the ink.] she didn't know.

So what could she possibly know now.

——

[The penmanship is calm again.]

Catharsis.

I can't put it into words beyond that, but I feel it.

I ran into Dandrik first thing after waking up - he was able to bring back a chest from what I assume was one of the Many Vaults. And by chest I mean the corpse of a mimic. Fascinating things. He was wondering if I had any ideas - being of a craft and all.

I don't know much about mimics, but it looked like a big one. You'd certainly need to know your way around furniture to make something of it. I recommended he speak to the Hakem. Yogi told me he was a bit of builder himself, looking to find harmony between civilization and the Wyld. Here I was, making assumptions that all Kulamet were herbalists and gardeners.

At least my foolishness could point Dan in the right direction for his mimic sculpting as he called it.

The board hadn't changed yet, I don't know why I even look. I haven't taken a job since Grenth died before we set for the Scald.

——

But I'm glad I looked. I nearly bumped into him - he was standing at the base of the stairs, right next to the board. Writing in a journal.

The Twindari priest - Witness Noxieos.

He carried a tome - The Book of the Dead, he called it. Not as sinister as it sounds. A book of remembrance, in reverence to Kalim.

I told him of Manta - he asked me to speak of him, so that he could record Manta's legacy in the tome. I thought it would honor his memory and, maybe selfishly, bring me some peace.

Selwyn overheard - I saw them peak around the steps and frown. I tried to convince them to come with me, and speak to Manta's legacy. After all, they were much closer to him than I was. It didn't go well - I offended them. I need to apologize. [A big star reminder.]

I worry about Selwyn. Nox asked me "Who worries about Ritz?" It was hard to answer. The only people who I could think of that would worry about me are dead. He said he would worry for me.

I spoke with the Witness for some time. I gave him my memories of Manta, and it was recorded in The Book of the Dead. I made sure there was still room for Selwyn's testimony.

And then there was call for a trial.

——

Nox mentioned his duty to study the laws of this land and mentioned his desire to witness this trial - no doubt in service to Gamil.

Murder.

Luther, Melody, Wigs - the Banda. Accused of murdering him.

I'll admit - I was filled with joy to hear that Luther had killed him.

But who hired the Banda to kill him - to tie up loose ends.

And then there was politics. Levying fines and retracting Voices.

No good deed goes unpunished.

Cort showed up at the end. But he didn't miss much. I saw him at the Krak afterwards. I wanted t- Then the sun started to come up.

——

[Half-conscious penmanship appears.]

He listened.

He answered.

The Murderer.
The Wroth.
The Wyld.

All met their justice upon the wicked.

The wicked called upon by the evil.

The evil that is yet to be known.

He knows.

He watches.

[A little scribble at the bottom of the page.]

How did she know?

——