Words In This Update - 1144 / 1134
Final Wordcount - 50351 by LibreOffice / 50341 by Official NNWM Wordcounter
My name is Israa Nejem. I'm the one that's been transcribing this whole diary over to a more legible form like a fiend for days on end now. It's probably obvious, given my notes, that I've been here the whole time, and I'm sorry for hiding my identity until now. At times, it felt like the world was stopped, time itself dead, lost in a whirlwind of madness and narcissism. It was an ugly time, and it seems it took me only a week or so to bring over. I've lost weight as I've not eaten much, nor slept much, as I worked to bring what I thought was a vastly important historical document to light after all this time. It's a shame now that I've seen it all, that I think my time would have been better spent doing literally anything else. I'm beginning to wonder if nailing my own eyes shut so I didn't have to read this would be more productive. You know what they say about hindsight, though.
If it's not obvious by my name, I am related to Basira. Her granddaughter, to be exact. The child she was pregnant with at the end there was my mother. I'm now about the age Basira was when this all occurred. I've long since known how to fly. In fact, I can't remember a time when none of us didn't know how. Guns are quite a bit more advanced. Everything is scads more efficient than her time. Her mark on history is indeed undeniable.
I had only known grandmother briefly. She died when I was quite young, and I never knew Lock. She died a while before Basira did, the two entirely inseparable, or so I have heard. Basira said there was someone waiting for her when she died up so high in the sky that not even her plane could reach her, and that she'd only have wings strong enough to meet her again once she passed. I always saw her as a noble, brave, romantic figure. After all, she gave birth to non magic flight, improved blackpowder weaponry quite a bit, was a loyal wife and mother, and and the woman who gave birth to the first of us Flintlocks, a race of half dragonkin and half elves. Us Flintlocks are known for our amazing hunting and engineering prowess, but short tempered and unable to do anything without overdoing it. I always thought I would be proud forever to be part of Basira's legacy.
Now, I'm not so sure. If anything, this journal's just shown what an amazing lout she was. I don't know if it was because of her young age, or if she was just like that her entire life. There are other journals of hers here, but someone else can transcribe them to find out the real deal. This is all too much of a headache, especially for one related to her as I am. Everything I know may very well be a lie. White is black, night is day, every glass of lemonade I had is now poison, and my girl bits have reverted to boy ones. Well, maybe not that far, but my mental image of her is forever tarnished. I guess if there's a moral to this story, it's that even heroes can be immense assholes. By Laeshann, they're probably the biggest of all, we just don't notice it a bit longer just to give them succor over what they've done for us. What a depressing moral.
I found this journal in the basement of the farm house she died in, located at the far edge of the Poakraeli Tropics, close to where the main road for Layabout is. In it was maps of the sky, old sketchbooks containing her drawings of Lock and the Lock Mark I, bits of long since rusted engine plugs, and a few more journals just like this one, but as I said, I'm not ready to know the truth of those. I'll leave those up to my superiors to handle, citing personal reasons as to why I cannot continue this job. After they see what I've uncovered, they'll not blame me one bit.
As for me, I'm going to go to Layabout and take a long vacation. Regain the weight I've lost worrying over this part of history. Worrying about if we had missed something important, but instead tripping into an immense pile of self importance and aggrandizing enough to last us all a few more generations of Flintlocks at least. I'll return to my job analyzing wings and constructing cheaper, sturdier frames after a few weeks respite.
If anything, I'm owed a few jugs of the apple brandy Layabout is known for. My own grandmother should be considered a work hazard, and this can be hazard pay. I'd sooner go into sawing and sparking and smelting uncovered again than I would traverse the twisted gnarled landscape that is her mind. I'm unsure how to even handle this or if I should even turn this report in.
Perhaps some bits of history are meant to be long forgotten. I could always lock the journals back up and just turn in the old engine parts and sketchbooks and maps as a historical oddity, a neat bit of fluff to keep Basira's image secured amongst our people and the world. I could turn this one, and subject everyone to as much of a migraine as I've gotten. I could just always pretend I found nothing and hide this box for the rest of my days. Or destroy it. I know what Basira would have wanted, and that's me releasing this and seeing that everyone get to patting her ass in the hereafter.
I hope you're having a fun time with Laeshann and Lock, grandmother, because I am now quite certain that Nnon cannot handle you. I know for a fact you'd think that was amazing, but trust me, I mean it in the worst way possible.
And no, before anyone goes asking, those statues never got made. We needed the resources to keep our research moving forward. A marble and diamond statue with a giant gallstone right eye would only serve to be stripped by thieves eventually, anyways. May as well put it towards something that acually functions as it should.
You were a genius, but you were also filth. The Golden Age really got going with you, but you could have also very well ended it had we had known.
I was my hands of this. I need a fucking drink. Don't go calling for me, when I'm ready to come back, I'll call for you.
-Israa Nejem
First day of the winter season in the year 1584, twentieth and fourth year of the Era Of Warrings, in which my pen so desperately and finally lays itself to rest
Final Wordcount - 50351 by LibreOffice / 50341 by Official NNWM Wordcounter
My name is Israa Nejem. I'm the one that's been transcribing this whole diary over to a more legible form like a fiend for days on end now. It's probably obvious, given my notes, that I've been here the whole time, and I'm sorry for hiding my identity until now. At times, it felt like the world was stopped, time itself dead, lost in a whirlwind of madness and narcissism. It was an ugly time, and it seems it took me only a week or so to bring over. I've lost weight as I've not eaten much, nor slept much, as I worked to bring what I thought was a vastly important historical document to light after all this time. It's a shame now that I've seen it all, that I think my time would have been better spent doing literally anything else. I'm beginning to wonder if nailing my own eyes shut so I didn't have to read this would be more productive. You know what they say about hindsight, though.
If it's not obvious by my name, I am related to Basira. Her granddaughter, to be exact. The child she was pregnant with at the end there was my mother. I'm now about the age Basira was when this all occurred. I've long since known how to fly. In fact, I can't remember a time when none of us didn't know how. Guns are quite a bit more advanced. Everything is scads more efficient than her time. Her mark on history is indeed undeniable.
I had only known grandmother briefly. She died when I was quite young, and I never knew Lock. She died a while before Basira did, the two entirely inseparable, or so I have heard. Basira said there was someone waiting for her when she died up so high in the sky that not even her plane could reach her, and that she'd only have wings strong enough to meet her again once she passed. I always saw her as a noble, brave, romantic figure. After all, she gave birth to non magic flight, improved blackpowder weaponry quite a bit, was a loyal wife and mother, and and the woman who gave birth to the first of us Flintlocks, a race of half dragonkin and half elves. Us Flintlocks are known for our amazing hunting and engineering prowess, but short tempered and unable to do anything without overdoing it. I always thought I would be proud forever to be part of Basira's legacy.
Now, I'm not so sure. If anything, this journal's just shown what an amazing lout she was. I don't know if it was because of her young age, or if she was just like that her entire life. There are other journals of hers here, but someone else can transcribe them to find out the real deal. This is all too much of a headache, especially for one related to her as I am. Everything I know may very well be a lie. White is black, night is day, every glass of lemonade I had is now poison, and my girl bits have reverted to boy ones. Well, maybe not that far, but my mental image of her is forever tarnished. I guess if there's a moral to this story, it's that even heroes can be immense assholes. By Laeshann, they're probably the biggest of all, we just don't notice it a bit longer just to give them succor over what they've done for us. What a depressing moral.
I found this journal in the basement of the farm house she died in, located at the far edge of the Poakraeli Tropics, close to where the main road for Layabout is. In it was maps of the sky, old sketchbooks containing her drawings of Lock and the Lock Mark I, bits of long since rusted engine plugs, and a few more journals just like this one, but as I said, I'm not ready to know the truth of those. I'll leave those up to my superiors to handle, citing personal reasons as to why I cannot continue this job. After they see what I've uncovered, they'll not blame me one bit.
As for me, I'm going to go to Layabout and take a long vacation. Regain the weight I've lost worrying over this part of history. Worrying about if we had missed something important, but instead tripping into an immense pile of self importance and aggrandizing enough to last us all a few more generations of Flintlocks at least. I'll return to my job analyzing wings and constructing cheaper, sturdier frames after a few weeks respite.
If anything, I'm owed a few jugs of the apple brandy Layabout is known for. My own grandmother should be considered a work hazard, and this can be hazard pay. I'd sooner go into sawing and sparking and smelting uncovered again than I would traverse the twisted gnarled landscape that is her mind. I'm unsure how to even handle this or if I should even turn this report in.
Perhaps some bits of history are meant to be long forgotten. I could always lock the journals back up and just turn in the old engine parts and sketchbooks and maps as a historical oddity, a neat bit of fluff to keep Basira's image secured amongst our people and the world. I could turn this one, and subject everyone to as much of a migraine as I've gotten. I could just always pretend I found nothing and hide this box for the rest of my days. Or destroy it. I know what Basira would have wanted, and that's me releasing this and seeing that everyone get to patting her ass in the hereafter.
I hope you're having a fun time with Laeshann and Lock, grandmother, because I am now quite certain that Nnon cannot handle you. I know for a fact you'd think that was amazing, but trust me, I mean it in the worst way possible.
And no, before anyone goes asking, those statues never got made. We needed the resources to keep our research moving forward. A marble and diamond statue with a giant gallstone right eye would only serve to be stripped by thieves eventually, anyways. May as well put it towards something that acually functions as it should.
You were a genius, but you were also filth. The Golden Age really got going with you, but you could have also very well ended it had we had known.
I was my hands of this. I need a fucking drink. Don't go calling for me, when I'm ready to come back, I'll call for you.
-Israa Nejem
First day of the winter season in the year 1584, twentieth and fourth year of the Era Of Warrings, in which my pen so desperately and finally lays itself to rest