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Words In This Update - 2175
Total Words So Far - 12550
(Israa's note: Well, I tried my damnedest to transcribe this following passage sensibly, but I fear there is no sense to be had in it. I believe when she wrote this, poor Basira was gone on what the medicine woman gave her. It reads like a fever dream at best, and the ramblings of a sick old sorcerer staring into the abyss at worst. That and her handwriting went to the Embers itself, I'm not entirely sure any of this is even remotely correct. You'll have to forgive me, any nonsense put forth was most certainly her own and not an invention of mine. I'm not about to waste my talent on that.)
A beautiful babbling brook bends backwards before breaking bounteous boobies. The wagons dance, but only because the sun commands them to. Dance, squirmy little wagons, dance! Kneel before the sun's mighty bosoms and bask in our warm, golden blanket of pigsteak, as we are the pan to your fire, and our flesh the sodium packed protein the world needs to clog its sweet heart. The wolves and the dune cats are here, and they're engaging the rock melons in a debate about whether mitter berries dream inside our stomachs and that's why we grow flighty in our heads or if it's all just us digesting their wishes for happiness. I can see it all, up and down, and the wagons laugh, because a wolf don't got no pants on. We giggle on, not at it, but with it, as it celebrates its natural beauty and radiates a green aura of plushiness.
I don't either. I've stripped myself of everything but my cape and hammer, the one tool that Our Lady would use as her own cock were she to have one, because it can do all, smearing the juice on my face to refresh myself and know that an angel is near. Or far. She's in my head and I can hear her, hoo hoo. That's the sound she cries out into our night, is hoo hoo. It's a revolution and a revelation, and I fear I would be remiss not to record it. I am one with the universe, with Nnon, the world tree in a plumed hat does go on. I never thought I could be this golden. Mama would be proud of me and my state of supreme freshness. I am one with you, too, diary. You are my brain's storage container, and me your forbidden lover. Come, let us make love through language.
I scoop you up tenderly and press my lips to your leather-bound hardness, seeking out the hoo hoo. A sign is nearby, planked mightily in planked state. On top of it is none other than the hoo hoo maker, a fierce, wide-eyed owl. Could this be? The Goddess of the Night herself? Senri the Owl Lord? Oh, joyous me, she's come to bless my genius mind! Maybe if I expose myself to her, she will make me pregnant with new inspiration. Oh, Senri, protector of us madmen who work all night to save the day, make me your earthly bride and---
---No, my godly spouse, do not attack me with your beak! Ow, oh, I'll save you diary! Ahh, not in my tiny elf tits, Senri! Did I not offer enough for you? I was just going to lay back and take it and think of the stars as we melded and you know that beak thing really hurts when you bite my nose and those talon things sting when they take strands of my hair to be your nest! Is that what you wanted, if so, why didn't you ask, oh screechy hoo hoo goddess? Maybe if I just...
(Israa's Note: Praise Our Lady Laeshann the madness ends her. A large ink blot is scratched across the page, indicating someone or something made her move suddenly.)
Diary. You're there. Good. I can't even make out what I wrote in you during my drug haze last night. When I can't read my own handwriting, something's gone seriously wrong. Probably for the best. I've had a terrible day and need to forget this as soon as possible, so whatever. All I know is when I awoke today, I was hogtied and naked, left in the back of the bard's wagon, for some unfathomably filthy reason, and covered in sticky juice, feathers, and scratches that looked like bird wounds. There were a few red marks on my legs and arms where it looks like something slapped or pinched me and a couple lumps on my head. At least my cape could cover me up enough that nobody got a free show. I ought to start charging for the shenanigans I put on display if it's going to keep winding up like this. May as well make more ducats out of my own folly.
I saw Alcy and Krissy near me, grinning and tapping their instruments like a guard would their trusty spear, laughing and shaking their heads a bit at me. Turns out they had to beat the stuffing out of me with their own cherished mandolin and tambourine, then tying me up and waiting for me to sober up and waken. Out of all the people to beat me and then take gross pity on me. They taunted me further by saying I'd 'sang beautifully' as my head got beat in. I'd have been sure to have them singing a very different tune had I been free at the moment and not trying to let my ankles and wrists chafe too much or have my ass flash too much. How humiliating. They're never going to let me live this one down, I just know it. They'll turn it into a play or some stupid, worthless dribble like that. I'd rather rake my own eardrums open with a toothpick.
“Oh, by the way, be nice to the owl, missy. You gave her quite a start! Thankfully she could defend herself. You might want to clean those wounds of yours soon.” How dare they suggest I be nice to a mangy old bird?! It probably attacked me first or was dumb or ugly or tried to lay an egg in my cape or who knows what. She knows I'd just eat them with pigsteak and juice. Why bother pooping them out as ammunition instead of, you know, repopulating their dumb faces with them? I told you birds were stupid as all get out.
Sadly, this means I missed the first guard, and the elder had a few choice words to say to me about all this. A few hundred thousand choice words, it felt like. I tried to tell him Kattu swapped the sleep medicine out with some bizarre drug cocktail, but he wouldn't buy it. I bet she's supplying him for free and just took his side. Crazy twitchy hag. I bet you're only twitchy because you sample your own goods all day. As a punishment? I'd have to be the first one to go into the mines and route any danger out, and not allowed back inside until I'd done away with it all. Are you fucking kidding me? My head feels like someone shit in it and you want me to slay legendary ore eating goblins or whatever lives in mines? What if I just started my own tribe after I built my plane and saved your asses? At least this means I get first dibs on any scrap or supplies found inside. I get only enough time to eat a meal, sober up a bit more, and then head on in. And this is where we're at now, diary, is me having to have a late breakfast. What time is it now anyways?
The sun's setting. You've got to be fucking kidding me again. This is all some kind of joke perpetrated on me by Our Lady, right? Some sort of gauntlet I must go through to become a legendary genius warrior that will get statues made of her someday. It happens all the time in stories. All I need is some star to shine down and guide me towards a legendary rifle that doesn't run out of bullets and doesn't need to be reloaded and I am totally ready for this. At least give me something cool out of all this mess, deserved or not. You can't just toy with me like this and expect me to accept valuable life lessons about friendship to be the real prize, now can you? Listen. I need money to survive. Lots of it. And firepower. Believing in goodness won't protect me from a goddamn sword slicing my arm off. If you believe that, you're probably higher than I was earlier. Those stories really only exist for one reason, and that's to give everyone in a five mile radius of them cavities. If anyone says otherwise, they're a filthy fascist liar and not to be trusted.
Thankfully, the drugs just leave you with a sense of someone ripping your brain in half, but always leave me strangely hungry. Wait, did I say always? I mean that's what I hear they do from the youth in the Stormlock tribe. Future scholars, when I was their age, I did not inhale. I don't care if you think I'm brain damaged by how I speak and act, it's just misunderstood genius and creativity, and it came to me naturally. Look, just forget I said anything. That paragraph does not exist. Neither does this last sentence or this one. I should probably come back later and black this out, along with whatever I said last night. I don't want this to come back and destroy my reputation for the rest of my legacy's forever. That would just wreck my poor little ghost's heart, wherever I end up when I'm dead. I'll be watching you, so don't do it, unless you want me to haunt your alarm clock.
The best way to get rid of the headache though is to eat a Razan desert pepper. I think I brought these up before, but I'm hoping the future still has them. They're far too amazing to let die off. You just take one, fry it up a bit until the skin gets nice and blistered, then pop the whole thing in your mouth at once and choke that sucker down. It'll do you in and make you choke flames it feels like, but after the initial burn you feel strangely pain-free. Mayhaps the scalding just drowns the pain out. So I'll add a couple to the pigsteak and toast I'm going to have, and then just make sure I have rock melon juice ready to help me through it all. Back with my plan of action after I eat.
Okay, I managed to survive my dinner. I nearly puked from choking at first, eyes watering enough to take a bath in, but afterward I did feel as fit as a fiddle, except for the part where fiddles are a tool of the devilish bards and I'd rather be as fit as a big windy ol' propeller. One day, all the idioms will be about me. How many times do you hear them saying how cool it'd be to be like steam or steel? No, it's always some magic or animal crap. Who cares, only the dune cats and wolves matter, but mostly because they hunt for my food and guard my scrap. A metal construct would be a way cooler thing to be fit as than an instrument designed solely to make one want to deafen their own ears permanently. Don't be that guy.
I'm going to need to clean and inspect The Marshal. I'm bringing my tools in and pulling out a pickaxe just in case. You never know when those will be be handy, and they make such a nasty weapon to drive into enemy skulls. It's so effective it should be required self-defense learning. I'll need the hard helm I modified to include a small, weak light on, as well as bringing a ton of rations and juice. Forget water, what if I want to gunk something up with sticky berry juice or sting someone's eye with citrus? The best tactics are the ones that would get you thrown out of a proper knight's duel. Fuck that. I want to win, not have the prettiest cape and poofiest hair and most chivalrous use of a rose. I'm not trying to get laid here.
Speaking of, why is everyone calling me Owlfucker today? Am I missing a joke? It's probably best I don't ask, but I know curiosity will get the best of me. I'll note down what they mean by it after I get ready.
-Basira Nejem
Dated sixth day of the third week of spring in the year 367 in which I forgot to check on Lock but will give no fucks about doing so until I'm equipped and ready to head out because seriously let her rot
Total Words So Far - 12550
(Israa's note: Well, I tried my damnedest to transcribe this following passage sensibly, but I fear there is no sense to be had in it. I believe when she wrote this, poor Basira was gone on what the medicine woman gave her. It reads like a fever dream at best, and the ramblings of a sick old sorcerer staring into the abyss at worst. That and her handwriting went to the Embers itself, I'm not entirely sure any of this is even remotely correct. You'll have to forgive me, any nonsense put forth was most certainly her own and not an invention of mine. I'm not about to waste my talent on that.)
A beautiful babbling brook bends backwards before breaking bounteous boobies. The wagons dance, but only because the sun commands them to. Dance, squirmy little wagons, dance! Kneel before the sun's mighty bosoms and bask in our warm, golden blanket of pigsteak, as we are the pan to your fire, and our flesh the sodium packed protein the world needs to clog its sweet heart. The wolves and the dune cats are here, and they're engaging the rock melons in a debate about whether mitter berries dream inside our stomachs and that's why we grow flighty in our heads or if it's all just us digesting their wishes for happiness. I can see it all, up and down, and the wagons laugh, because a wolf don't got no pants on. We giggle on, not at it, but with it, as it celebrates its natural beauty and radiates a green aura of plushiness.
I don't either. I've stripped myself of everything but my cape and hammer, the one tool that Our Lady would use as her own cock were she to have one, because it can do all, smearing the juice on my face to refresh myself and know that an angel is near. Or far. She's in my head and I can hear her, hoo hoo. That's the sound she cries out into our night, is hoo hoo. It's a revolution and a revelation, and I fear I would be remiss not to record it. I am one with the universe, with Nnon, the world tree in a plumed hat does go on. I never thought I could be this golden. Mama would be proud of me and my state of supreme freshness. I am one with you, too, diary. You are my brain's storage container, and me your forbidden lover. Come, let us make love through language.
I scoop you up tenderly and press my lips to your leather-bound hardness, seeking out the hoo hoo. A sign is nearby, planked mightily in planked state. On top of it is none other than the hoo hoo maker, a fierce, wide-eyed owl. Could this be? The Goddess of the Night herself? Senri the Owl Lord? Oh, joyous me, she's come to bless my genius mind! Maybe if I expose myself to her, she will make me pregnant with new inspiration. Oh, Senri, protector of us madmen who work all night to save the day, make me your earthly bride and---
---No, my godly spouse, do not attack me with your beak! Ow, oh, I'll save you diary! Ahh, not in my tiny elf tits, Senri! Did I not offer enough for you? I was just going to lay back and take it and think of the stars as we melded and you know that beak thing really hurts when you bite my nose and those talon things sting when they take strands of my hair to be your nest! Is that what you wanted, if so, why didn't you ask, oh screechy hoo hoo goddess? Maybe if I just...
(Israa's Note: Praise Our Lady Laeshann the madness ends her. A large ink blot is scratched across the page, indicating someone or something made her move suddenly.)
Diary. You're there. Good. I can't even make out what I wrote in you during my drug haze last night. When I can't read my own handwriting, something's gone seriously wrong. Probably for the best. I've had a terrible day and need to forget this as soon as possible, so whatever. All I know is when I awoke today, I was hogtied and naked, left in the back of the bard's wagon, for some unfathomably filthy reason, and covered in sticky juice, feathers, and scratches that looked like bird wounds. There were a few red marks on my legs and arms where it looks like something slapped or pinched me and a couple lumps on my head. At least my cape could cover me up enough that nobody got a free show. I ought to start charging for the shenanigans I put on display if it's going to keep winding up like this. May as well make more ducats out of my own folly.
I saw Alcy and Krissy near me, grinning and tapping their instruments like a guard would their trusty spear, laughing and shaking their heads a bit at me. Turns out they had to beat the stuffing out of me with their own cherished mandolin and tambourine, then tying me up and waiting for me to sober up and waken. Out of all the people to beat me and then take gross pity on me. They taunted me further by saying I'd 'sang beautifully' as my head got beat in. I'd have been sure to have them singing a very different tune had I been free at the moment and not trying to let my ankles and wrists chafe too much or have my ass flash too much. How humiliating. They're never going to let me live this one down, I just know it. They'll turn it into a play or some stupid, worthless dribble like that. I'd rather rake my own eardrums open with a toothpick.
“Oh, by the way, be nice to the owl, missy. You gave her quite a start! Thankfully she could defend herself. You might want to clean those wounds of yours soon.” How dare they suggest I be nice to a mangy old bird?! It probably attacked me first or was dumb or ugly or tried to lay an egg in my cape or who knows what. She knows I'd just eat them with pigsteak and juice. Why bother pooping them out as ammunition instead of, you know, repopulating their dumb faces with them? I told you birds were stupid as all get out.
Sadly, this means I missed the first guard, and the elder had a few choice words to say to me about all this. A few hundred thousand choice words, it felt like. I tried to tell him Kattu swapped the sleep medicine out with some bizarre drug cocktail, but he wouldn't buy it. I bet she's supplying him for free and just took his side. Crazy twitchy hag. I bet you're only twitchy because you sample your own goods all day. As a punishment? I'd have to be the first one to go into the mines and route any danger out, and not allowed back inside until I'd done away with it all. Are you fucking kidding me? My head feels like someone shit in it and you want me to slay legendary ore eating goblins or whatever lives in mines? What if I just started my own tribe after I built my plane and saved your asses? At least this means I get first dibs on any scrap or supplies found inside. I get only enough time to eat a meal, sober up a bit more, and then head on in. And this is where we're at now, diary, is me having to have a late breakfast. What time is it now anyways?
The sun's setting. You've got to be fucking kidding me again. This is all some kind of joke perpetrated on me by Our Lady, right? Some sort of gauntlet I must go through to become a legendary genius warrior that will get statues made of her someday. It happens all the time in stories. All I need is some star to shine down and guide me towards a legendary rifle that doesn't run out of bullets and doesn't need to be reloaded and I am totally ready for this. At least give me something cool out of all this mess, deserved or not. You can't just toy with me like this and expect me to accept valuable life lessons about friendship to be the real prize, now can you? Listen. I need money to survive. Lots of it. And firepower. Believing in goodness won't protect me from a goddamn sword slicing my arm off. If you believe that, you're probably higher than I was earlier. Those stories really only exist for one reason, and that's to give everyone in a five mile radius of them cavities. If anyone says otherwise, they're a filthy fascist liar and not to be trusted.
Thankfully, the drugs just leave you with a sense of someone ripping your brain in half, but always leave me strangely hungry. Wait, did I say always? I mean that's what I hear they do from the youth in the Stormlock tribe. Future scholars, when I was their age, I did not inhale. I don't care if you think I'm brain damaged by how I speak and act, it's just misunderstood genius and creativity, and it came to me naturally. Look, just forget I said anything. That paragraph does not exist. Neither does this last sentence or this one. I should probably come back later and black this out, along with whatever I said last night. I don't want this to come back and destroy my reputation for the rest of my legacy's forever. That would just wreck my poor little ghost's heart, wherever I end up when I'm dead. I'll be watching you, so don't do it, unless you want me to haunt your alarm clock.
The best way to get rid of the headache though is to eat a Razan desert pepper. I think I brought these up before, but I'm hoping the future still has them. They're far too amazing to let die off. You just take one, fry it up a bit until the skin gets nice and blistered, then pop the whole thing in your mouth at once and choke that sucker down. It'll do you in and make you choke flames it feels like, but after the initial burn you feel strangely pain-free. Mayhaps the scalding just drowns the pain out. So I'll add a couple to the pigsteak and toast I'm going to have, and then just make sure I have rock melon juice ready to help me through it all. Back with my plan of action after I eat.
Okay, I managed to survive my dinner. I nearly puked from choking at first, eyes watering enough to take a bath in, but afterward I did feel as fit as a fiddle, except for the part where fiddles are a tool of the devilish bards and I'd rather be as fit as a big windy ol' propeller. One day, all the idioms will be about me. How many times do you hear them saying how cool it'd be to be like steam or steel? No, it's always some magic or animal crap. Who cares, only the dune cats and wolves matter, but mostly because they hunt for my food and guard my scrap. A metal construct would be a way cooler thing to be fit as than an instrument designed solely to make one want to deafen their own ears permanently. Don't be that guy.
I'm going to need to clean and inspect The Marshal. I'm bringing my tools in and pulling out a pickaxe just in case. You never know when those will be be handy, and they make such a nasty weapon to drive into enemy skulls. It's so effective it should be required self-defense learning. I'll need the hard helm I modified to include a small, weak light on, as well as bringing a ton of rations and juice. Forget water, what if I want to gunk something up with sticky berry juice or sting someone's eye with citrus? The best tactics are the ones that would get you thrown out of a proper knight's duel. Fuck that. I want to win, not have the prettiest cape and poofiest hair and most chivalrous use of a rose. I'm not trying to get laid here.
Speaking of, why is everyone calling me Owlfucker today? Am I missing a joke? It's probably best I don't ask, but I know curiosity will get the best of me. I'll note down what they mean by it after I get ready.
-Basira Nejem
Dated sixth day of the third week of spring in the year 367 in which I forgot to check on Lock but will give no fucks about doing so until I'm equipped and ready to head out because seriously let her rot
