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Words In This Update - 2548
Total Words So Far - 31128
Do you know what solves all of life's ills? If you guessed lemonade and bar stools, because I had just mentioned it, congratulations, you can pat yourself on the back for realizing that yes, you can pay attention. If you guessed anything else, I'm beginning to wonder why you're still reading this. Surely, you future generations have more to do than scan some pages of a random book in the library hoping it devolves into smut, ducking into the restroom with it, and taking a suspiciously long break before returning it to the shelf with pages stuck together mysteriously now.
But enough about your disgusting self-pleasure habits. I went and squeezed myself some fresh, extra sour lemonade and chugged it back. It burned my throat up pretty bad, but it was a good burn. The combination of vomit, pepper oil, and citrus made me sound especially raspy and dangerous, giving me an intimidating edge needed to dominate any conversation. The sharpness of each swallow going past my tongue helped me re-focus and rehydrate, slapping myself on my cheeks and splashing cold water on my face in preparation for speaking with the elder. If they asked why I looked and sounded rough, I could just blame Icilina and her weird bath and eye treatment. I'd blame Lock to keep in character, but I honestly don't know if I have the heart to, or lack thereof, and that honestly is beginning to bother me. Where's the cool, aloof heroine gone? The lone wolf who doesn't follow the pack and hangs off to the side, kicking ass and getting a neat pulp novel series about her, left on the table of some daydreaming housewife, pretending she's all the women I take to bed and never send word back to the next day? Mysterious as the wind, am I. Hopefully this heroine's not devolved into a sappy love interest with sparkling, perfect skin and humping some undead creature to add a twist of unneeded kink and danger yet! That always ruins the series and you know a crappy epilogue book is coming up next, filled with the adventures of the heroine's kids emulating their brave mom. It always comes off as really trite and hokey to me. If any of you scholars out there are transcribing me, let it be known that you should just knock that shit off and give me a real ending. You know who you are, and you'll be the first to go under my new world order. Well, second in line after the bards. I know you're in cahoots with them too, what with all the fancy prose writing, so I'll have you arrested on grounds of accessory and conspiracy to destroy my eardrums and whatever precious sleep I was in the process of getting.
I made my way with The Marshal on my back towards the biggest wagon we had. The elder always did like being a show off. Makes her a damn huge target if you ask me. Why put yourself at risk like that just to look a bit prettier than us? It must be because she's so old. I mean, she doesn't look bad for three thousand, but she's got it in her head she's uglier than the parchment I'm writing on right now and just as wrinkly. It'd be easier to believe if it didn't look like Laeshann herself smoothed her out every night as she rests using her big, soft, milky tits. I looked at the guards and they let me in, looking a bit nauseous at my eye, even though it was clean and wrapped. Yes, this could very well be you, or worse, and it's your damn job to get these kinds of injuries, not mine. Stop whining before I knock your helms together and use them as drums. I made my way in and saw it lit up with torches, plenty of decorative skins, rugs, and jewels adorning the place, a throne at the end where the elder say, a headdress of harpy feathers adorning her head, dark golden locks swirled around her own tits, wearing enough silk and gold to choke an entire merchant's guild to death. Granted, they'd probably like that. I wonder if that would count as erotic asphyxiation to them, given how hard they get polishing elven ores on their greasy shirts. Makes me want to become a celibate nun for the Violet Voulge cult down near Labryssinia just thinking of it.
Our elder Ikka was always a grand woman. In her hand sat a goblet crafted from a full dragon's bones, a strong fruity desert wine dribbling out of it. Her other hand was tucked under her chin, legs crossed over with each other, a smug smile as she bared her teeth and fluttered her silvery eyes at me. As she made eye contact with me, she snickered a bit and beckoned me closer. If I didn't know this was our supposed old hag of an elder, I'd suspect she was a succubus in disguise trying to come on to me. Not that it'd work; I prefer my sex demons smelling of gunpowder, if they even expect to begin to be able to get close to my slit. I fully expect all your future people fanworks that are no doubt filling the archives alongside Kattu's to be based upon that fact alone, even though I specifically said I wouldn't go for it. It's all about subtext to you smut writers. I'm on to you, too.
I sigh and dig in my left ear with my finger. Feels like that Icilina brat left a few bars' worth of soap in there. Wouldn't be surprised if she somehow got the whole tub in it, even though I saw her crawl in it. Maybe that's just what she wants us to believe. I straight up ask her what she wants because I am obviously a busy woman and a busy genius doing busy things busily and I'd like to get on with it. It's been several thousand lines of exposition and even I'm sick of waiting to hear what she has to say, noting all of this down. I don't have infinite paper nor infinite ink to scrawl all this down, as cool as that would be, and I don't need to have my joints in my writing hand fail me at my young age. I keep my gaze in her eyes as I sigh and wait.
“So that sibling of your darling pet's that she turned traitor to and dumped with us has proven invaluable.” she begins, sounding haughty, dribbling wine down her cheek. “We plied her with meat and drugs, pulling the truth from her. They were scouts, sent here to gauge us. If they somehow made it back with only minor wounds about them, they'd return a few weeks from now to check us out again. And keep trying until they saw us off guard and go to work an attack plan. Something we could definitely hold off easily, if they kept trying to scout us so poorly. Just shoot them and listen to them squeal like hogs. Gets me going every time.”
She slurped some more and snorted. “But there's some bad news. Were they to be caught and not returned to their camp in a day? They'd send an attack group at us right then. Given their positioning and scheduling, in this weather, we've about a week left before that happens. Your plane better be ready by then, or else.” Her smile was wide and playfully cruel, as if it'd be my skull she'd be slurping booze out of if I failed this. She beckoned me closer again, and my curious self got me in trouble. Once I was close enough, she gripped my hair with her free hand, set her drink down, flipped my eye patch up, shuffled the bandages around, and licked my gallstone eye. Laughter permeated the wagon as she did. “Tastes gross and salty! Didn't you wash up, kiddo?”
I was too freaked out to reply. Forget using my skull as a cup. Imagine her, just having me sit by her throne with a shot ready in my eye socket at any time, opening me up like a flask and chugging. Her fingers ruffled through my hair and she kicked me out, going back to her drink and shooing me away. “It's time for my old lady nap, get a move on and see to it that my wagon and I are still here next week. I want to try the new batch of prickly pear liqueur due out around then. Don't let us down, now, oh great and wonderful genius Basira!”
I left and fixed up my patch and bandages, making sure my gallstone was still intact and in place. This is why I don't talk about the elder much; she's nearly as much of a creep as Kattu can be. I'm still reeling from the sudden sense of immense dread I had then. However, if a week was all I had, then a week was all I was going to need.
I'd kept a bunch of parts I was putting together hidden in a compartment under my scrap heap. Wing frames, fuel remnants in jugs, anything I could find would go in there. I'd need to still measure Lock out and see what I could adjust on my plane now and recover the engine from that crevice back in the Solim mines, but I think it can be done. After all, I am the tribe genius. I might be cutting it close and need to dip into our lamia coffee reserves a bit more than usual, but nobody said genius ever came easy. It was time for me to take flight and show the Stormlock tribe what freedom was. No more moping around and waffling about who's the enemy or what the consequences may be, I had to take action. To prove myself beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would be worthy of this journal, the future generations, and to whomever is reading this now. My title would not be taken from me.
But still, a small part of me felt hesitant, especially deep in my chest. I was supposed to take flight. Fulfill my dream, my destiny, cement my place in history. I'd be a credit to my people and be secure for the rest of my days. But then I thought of Lock. How content she was now. How full her belly was, how wide her smile was, dare I say how warm and peaceful she seemed. I could possibly hurt her and abuse her more than I already have by going to war and stealing flight from her kind. Was I heartless enough to do that? Why did I feel like I should talk it out with her before I got started, and that this may just end with me gutted by her for daring to overstep my boundaries?
And why was I afraid more so of losing that sudden trust she had for me more than I was of dying? No matter. I'll sort it all out soon enough. It'd been long enough from breakfast that I was settled enough to eat lunch. I could think on this after I ate and calibrated myself. Surely, it was just hunger getting to my system, right? Usually it is. Just a big glass of juice and some kind of sandwich would do me right. It'd do anyone right. I shook my head and rubbed my temples, letting out a sharp breath and beginning the march back to my wagon to get my food reserves out. Desert snake on freshly kneaded, thick grained bread with a bit of that leftover citrus and pepper sauce from breakfast sounded filling and energizing. Just what the genius ordered.
Before I could, though, I had the urge to go over and sit by Lock. Watching her. She was pretty heavily out of it, and even if I went to poke and prod her horns, tugging, nothing would happen. She would just continue her snoring, an ember or spark or two coming out now and again. I took out some paper and drew her wings and body out a bit, counting the scales on her tail afterward. They weren't even the sketches I would need to build my plane. I'd ask her if I could have her pose for that when she was waking. This was a rare moment to catch her entirely relaxed, in a state none of us ever saw before. Sleeping, dreaming, snoring as any other beast or elf or man would. Claws retracted, scales looking warm and comfortable. Almost inviting.
Wasn't I supposed to stop with all of this extra mushy shit? All these feelings? When all of this was done, when I could fly and go on to make other planes, she would be no longer needed. Free to travel as she pleased. Go back to her tribe and betray me and us for all I care. Wait, betray? That implies trust. A heavy amount of it. Or at least admiration. It was then I had to shut up and quietly admit to myself something, before I berated myself for it endlessly and boring whoever was reading this forevermore.
I tucked my diary and sketches away then, propping The Marshal up nearby and snuggling against Lock's side. She was as warm as her scales implied she was. I pet her horns and made sure my cape wouldn't tangle up in her claws or anything once they came back out. I sighed, looking up at the sun, wondering what Laeshann was thinking toying with me like this. I could be a liability to the whole tribe if I admitted this, but if I didn't, I'd go mad. And in the bad way. And the last thing we would need is me using my plane to gun everyone down in their time of need, turning into the biggest traitor of all. It was gross to say this, even to myself, but it was long since needed.
I like Lock. I liked Lock. I like her a lot. She's not that bad, not even just as a dragonkin, but as a person. She's free. She's warm. She is freedom herself, already having known the sweet kiss of the sky against her as she flies. And she, too, would by my ticket to freedom if I let her. I couldn't even bring myself to write down a terrible name for her or think of one. I passed out before I could get my lunch, snoring away as contently as she was..
I guess I really was turning into a shitty book stereotype. I know what you're thinking. The first person in the future to say 'Awww' or any sort of equivalent is getting shot at by the spirit of The Marshal. Right in the tit. Or whatever it is you skinny, nerdy guys have. You're scholars, chances are you're not that fit. Let's not kid ourselves.
-Basira Nejem
Dated mid-afternoon of the eighth day of the third week of spring in the year 367 which is roughly how many times I snored before waking to eat
Total Words So Far - 31128
Do you know what solves all of life's ills? If you guessed lemonade and bar stools, because I had just mentioned it, congratulations, you can pat yourself on the back for realizing that yes, you can pay attention. If you guessed anything else, I'm beginning to wonder why you're still reading this. Surely, you future generations have more to do than scan some pages of a random book in the library hoping it devolves into smut, ducking into the restroom with it, and taking a suspiciously long break before returning it to the shelf with pages stuck together mysteriously now.
But enough about your disgusting self-pleasure habits. I went and squeezed myself some fresh, extra sour lemonade and chugged it back. It burned my throat up pretty bad, but it was a good burn. The combination of vomit, pepper oil, and citrus made me sound especially raspy and dangerous, giving me an intimidating edge needed to dominate any conversation. The sharpness of each swallow going past my tongue helped me re-focus and rehydrate, slapping myself on my cheeks and splashing cold water on my face in preparation for speaking with the elder. If they asked why I looked and sounded rough, I could just blame Icilina and her weird bath and eye treatment. I'd blame Lock to keep in character, but I honestly don't know if I have the heart to, or lack thereof, and that honestly is beginning to bother me. Where's the cool, aloof heroine gone? The lone wolf who doesn't follow the pack and hangs off to the side, kicking ass and getting a neat pulp novel series about her, left on the table of some daydreaming housewife, pretending she's all the women I take to bed and never send word back to the next day? Mysterious as the wind, am I. Hopefully this heroine's not devolved into a sappy love interest with sparkling, perfect skin and humping some undead creature to add a twist of unneeded kink and danger yet! That always ruins the series and you know a crappy epilogue book is coming up next, filled with the adventures of the heroine's kids emulating their brave mom. It always comes off as really trite and hokey to me. If any of you scholars out there are transcribing me, let it be known that you should just knock that shit off and give me a real ending. You know who you are, and you'll be the first to go under my new world order. Well, second in line after the bards. I know you're in cahoots with them too, what with all the fancy prose writing, so I'll have you arrested on grounds of accessory and conspiracy to destroy my eardrums and whatever precious sleep I was in the process of getting.
I made my way with The Marshal on my back towards the biggest wagon we had. The elder always did like being a show off. Makes her a damn huge target if you ask me. Why put yourself at risk like that just to look a bit prettier than us? It must be because she's so old. I mean, she doesn't look bad for three thousand, but she's got it in her head she's uglier than the parchment I'm writing on right now and just as wrinkly. It'd be easier to believe if it didn't look like Laeshann herself smoothed her out every night as she rests using her big, soft, milky tits. I looked at the guards and they let me in, looking a bit nauseous at my eye, even though it was clean and wrapped. Yes, this could very well be you, or worse, and it's your damn job to get these kinds of injuries, not mine. Stop whining before I knock your helms together and use them as drums. I made my way in and saw it lit up with torches, plenty of decorative skins, rugs, and jewels adorning the place, a throne at the end where the elder say, a headdress of harpy feathers adorning her head, dark golden locks swirled around her own tits, wearing enough silk and gold to choke an entire merchant's guild to death. Granted, they'd probably like that. I wonder if that would count as erotic asphyxiation to them, given how hard they get polishing elven ores on their greasy shirts. Makes me want to become a celibate nun for the Violet Voulge cult down near Labryssinia just thinking of it.
Our elder Ikka was always a grand woman. In her hand sat a goblet crafted from a full dragon's bones, a strong fruity desert wine dribbling out of it. Her other hand was tucked under her chin, legs crossed over with each other, a smug smile as she bared her teeth and fluttered her silvery eyes at me. As she made eye contact with me, she snickered a bit and beckoned me closer. If I didn't know this was our supposed old hag of an elder, I'd suspect she was a succubus in disguise trying to come on to me. Not that it'd work; I prefer my sex demons smelling of gunpowder, if they even expect to begin to be able to get close to my slit. I fully expect all your future people fanworks that are no doubt filling the archives alongside Kattu's to be based upon that fact alone, even though I specifically said I wouldn't go for it. It's all about subtext to you smut writers. I'm on to you, too.
I sigh and dig in my left ear with my finger. Feels like that Icilina brat left a few bars' worth of soap in there. Wouldn't be surprised if she somehow got the whole tub in it, even though I saw her crawl in it. Maybe that's just what she wants us to believe. I straight up ask her what she wants because I am obviously a busy woman and a busy genius doing busy things busily and I'd like to get on with it. It's been several thousand lines of exposition and even I'm sick of waiting to hear what she has to say, noting all of this down. I don't have infinite paper nor infinite ink to scrawl all this down, as cool as that would be, and I don't need to have my joints in my writing hand fail me at my young age. I keep my gaze in her eyes as I sigh and wait.
“So that sibling of your darling pet's that she turned traitor to and dumped with us has proven invaluable.” she begins, sounding haughty, dribbling wine down her cheek. “We plied her with meat and drugs, pulling the truth from her. They were scouts, sent here to gauge us. If they somehow made it back with only minor wounds about them, they'd return a few weeks from now to check us out again. And keep trying until they saw us off guard and go to work an attack plan. Something we could definitely hold off easily, if they kept trying to scout us so poorly. Just shoot them and listen to them squeal like hogs. Gets me going every time.”
She slurped some more and snorted. “But there's some bad news. Were they to be caught and not returned to their camp in a day? They'd send an attack group at us right then. Given their positioning and scheduling, in this weather, we've about a week left before that happens. Your plane better be ready by then, or else.” Her smile was wide and playfully cruel, as if it'd be my skull she'd be slurping booze out of if I failed this. She beckoned me closer again, and my curious self got me in trouble. Once I was close enough, she gripped my hair with her free hand, set her drink down, flipped my eye patch up, shuffled the bandages around, and licked my gallstone eye. Laughter permeated the wagon as she did. “Tastes gross and salty! Didn't you wash up, kiddo?”
I was too freaked out to reply. Forget using my skull as a cup. Imagine her, just having me sit by her throne with a shot ready in my eye socket at any time, opening me up like a flask and chugging. Her fingers ruffled through my hair and she kicked me out, going back to her drink and shooing me away. “It's time for my old lady nap, get a move on and see to it that my wagon and I are still here next week. I want to try the new batch of prickly pear liqueur due out around then. Don't let us down, now, oh great and wonderful genius Basira!”
I left and fixed up my patch and bandages, making sure my gallstone was still intact and in place. This is why I don't talk about the elder much; she's nearly as much of a creep as Kattu can be. I'm still reeling from the sudden sense of immense dread I had then. However, if a week was all I had, then a week was all I was going to need.
I'd kept a bunch of parts I was putting together hidden in a compartment under my scrap heap. Wing frames, fuel remnants in jugs, anything I could find would go in there. I'd need to still measure Lock out and see what I could adjust on my plane now and recover the engine from that crevice back in the Solim mines, but I think it can be done. After all, I am the tribe genius. I might be cutting it close and need to dip into our lamia coffee reserves a bit more than usual, but nobody said genius ever came easy. It was time for me to take flight and show the Stormlock tribe what freedom was. No more moping around and waffling about who's the enemy or what the consequences may be, I had to take action. To prove myself beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would be worthy of this journal, the future generations, and to whomever is reading this now. My title would not be taken from me.
But still, a small part of me felt hesitant, especially deep in my chest. I was supposed to take flight. Fulfill my dream, my destiny, cement my place in history. I'd be a credit to my people and be secure for the rest of my days. But then I thought of Lock. How content she was now. How full her belly was, how wide her smile was, dare I say how warm and peaceful she seemed. I could possibly hurt her and abuse her more than I already have by going to war and stealing flight from her kind. Was I heartless enough to do that? Why did I feel like I should talk it out with her before I got started, and that this may just end with me gutted by her for daring to overstep my boundaries?
And why was I afraid more so of losing that sudden trust she had for me more than I was of dying? No matter. I'll sort it all out soon enough. It'd been long enough from breakfast that I was settled enough to eat lunch. I could think on this after I ate and calibrated myself. Surely, it was just hunger getting to my system, right? Usually it is. Just a big glass of juice and some kind of sandwich would do me right. It'd do anyone right. I shook my head and rubbed my temples, letting out a sharp breath and beginning the march back to my wagon to get my food reserves out. Desert snake on freshly kneaded, thick grained bread with a bit of that leftover citrus and pepper sauce from breakfast sounded filling and energizing. Just what the genius ordered.
Before I could, though, I had the urge to go over and sit by Lock. Watching her. She was pretty heavily out of it, and even if I went to poke and prod her horns, tugging, nothing would happen. She would just continue her snoring, an ember or spark or two coming out now and again. I took out some paper and drew her wings and body out a bit, counting the scales on her tail afterward. They weren't even the sketches I would need to build my plane. I'd ask her if I could have her pose for that when she was waking. This was a rare moment to catch her entirely relaxed, in a state none of us ever saw before. Sleeping, dreaming, snoring as any other beast or elf or man would. Claws retracted, scales looking warm and comfortable. Almost inviting.
Wasn't I supposed to stop with all of this extra mushy shit? All these feelings? When all of this was done, when I could fly and go on to make other planes, she would be no longer needed. Free to travel as she pleased. Go back to her tribe and betray me and us for all I care. Wait, betray? That implies trust. A heavy amount of it. Or at least admiration. It was then I had to shut up and quietly admit to myself something, before I berated myself for it endlessly and boring whoever was reading this forevermore.
I tucked my diary and sketches away then, propping The Marshal up nearby and snuggling against Lock's side. She was as warm as her scales implied she was. I pet her horns and made sure my cape wouldn't tangle up in her claws or anything once they came back out. I sighed, looking up at the sun, wondering what Laeshann was thinking toying with me like this. I could be a liability to the whole tribe if I admitted this, but if I didn't, I'd go mad. And in the bad way. And the last thing we would need is me using my plane to gun everyone down in their time of need, turning into the biggest traitor of all. It was gross to say this, even to myself, but it was long since needed.
I like Lock. I liked Lock. I like her a lot. She's not that bad, not even just as a dragonkin, but as a person. She's free. She's warm. She is freedom herself, already having known the sweet kiss of the sky against her as she flies. And she, too, would by my ticket to freedom if I let her. I couldn't even bring myself to write down a terrible name for her or think of one. I passed out before I could get my lunch, snoring away as contently as she was..
I guess I really was turning into a shitty book stereotype. I know what you're thinking. The first person in the future to say 'Awww' or any sort of equivalent is getting shot at by the spirit of The Marshal. Right in the tit. Or whatever it is you skinny, nerdy guys have. You're scholars, chances are you're not that fit. Let's not kid ourselves.
-Basira Nejem
Dated mid-afternoon of the eighth day of the third week of spring in the year 367 which is roughly how many times I snored before waking to eat
