**This page is mostly covered with one line in repetition 'I will not drink with Kairiel again.' followed by a brief comment or two**
Sand is a comfortable bed but beetles make bad bed fellows.
Look into this thing known as 'a steppy stool'... The top shelf continues to confound.

The footing is different now, less slick, feeling much more treacherous. I can't fathom what changed it so.

Everyone digs for pieces of others, it's not that I don't. When I probe it's a culling of weakness, safety in knowing where another will crack with just a tap. Or the exultation of well matched wit, keen-edged. They have different reasons I couldn't gather; blunt curiosity, gossip, ammunition, feigned caring.
'Poor Sehdae, so shattered. If we find out why, we can glue the scattered pieces back in place ~~bonding in friendship as we do.' I've plenty friends, ones who don't push at my supposedly fractured psyche.
**ink blots the page here before the writing continues** I don't judge them, as he does. They even bring amusement some turns. I just don't understand them.

I grasp the why of the first, the last seems another delusion. Giving honorable purpose to instinct and boredom, perhaps.
There is no true care without acceptance, without a basic knowing.
What purpose in them knowing what our relationship is?
'He can touch you? Why? You love him?'
As if they are shocked and need a definition, a book, to understand how I function.
It's not that confusing. I trust him to kill me quickly, should the desire take him, and nothing more. Like Kade I trust in him to be blunt and truthful where it counts. No lording of greater height and superior strength. No veiled overtures. I expect him to lash out, expressive, and true when I anger him-- and I do inevitably anger him. Not backhanded whispers, but snarling and thrown dagger before it is done. This is honest. More than I can say for most.

So I allow him to give me discomfort. Pain, to bring him comfort. To express the sting of his absence- it is not so much to pay.
Bared neck, payment in kind.

We should've gone elsewhere, right as ever. I didn't care at the time. Perhaps I'm slipping even on well traction-ed ground.

'We don't explain ourselves to sheep' The advice still makes me laugh, even as I try to adjust the paradigm slightly.

Long. bleating noses are best kept out of my way. I've not changed enough to resist removing them from my space, forcefully. I miss the feel of shattering bone, even if I've experienced it recently, and my restraint is always so very thin...


I regret hinting he should change, only. Seek contentment and purpose as you are. You always have a place...

It's what I should've said.
Bad as ever at such things, I pressured the stress-point instead.

Perhaps I attempt to justif ------ **The scattering of chicken-scratched thoughts, script unusually sloppy, ends abruptly with truncated, ripped words on a torn off page edge.**

Questions appear to be a new fad this turn or two.
They dig and burrow deep, like maggots feasting on the inner rot. Or parasites carving their merry way to the center, searching out the heart, and taking up residence.
Lucky, then, I've no heart to speak of.
All the same I admit, if only to myself, they stir... something. The internal, proverbial pot-- creating a stew from the flesh of scarred over wounds and the flood of long damned off memories.
I will dream of them again, it always happens so, when I've been reminded. Most unpleasant.
It stands to reason, since all here are broken in some way, they'd know not to prod at past things. They seem to take some comfort from shared pain? Why do you poke at a tooth that festers?

Perhaps the Hunter will save me this time, just this once and eternally banish the foes that no longer exist, except within my prodded, pain filled nightmares.

Best to sleep outside the Hall this night. Silken webs make a pleasant enough hammock.

Fight or Flight- These are the base instincts of us all. Animals, we lie to ourselves most of us. The great manipulator of all the split decisions we make. It may stem from other things and events, but in the end, fear is the decider. Fear of showing oneself truly, of being judged, seems to be a main theme... Fear of feeling...Fear of touch... Fear of truth... Fear of weakness, shown. Everyone I talk to is the same at the root of it.
I enjoy fight myself, though I'm not opposed to strategic retreat.

I have felt /pity/. I was sure I'd removed this weak emotion with the rest. It's a useless on in reality. How disappointing to find it lurks. What else has hidden there, in the depths, far from my reaching dagger tip.
A stoic mask hides such a quick temper. Amusing for a moment as I do enjoy a good argument. I will resist poking that one for a while.

Casting judgement, when you are just as broken as the rest, is a delusion you create to make yourself feel /more/. I suppose it's better than being empty... There are many of those as well.

**A large red ink blot mars the page here- as if the author rested the quill on the parchment as they thought**

A lot happens in a turn sometimes and others... nothing.
I have shared a small bit of trust, as well. We will see where that goes. There may be hidden motivations I do not see. I do think he hides behind flowery words and flamboyant actions, but we all hide behind something- our proverbial 'Mother's skirt' I suppose.

My master is conspicuously absent again. I am long past the time I should call him such... I should not feel surprise or disappointment. One day I will stop watching the road- not this day. He will, in all probability, be displeased with my new associations, but at least on that matter I have taken his right to say away.



**A carefully folded origami kitten, bright copper coins for eyes, is folded into the pages here.**

I have had more than my, and my feather's, fill of shark blood. Such weak prey- it's a shame to have to waste so much time on a beach infestation. Useless things. They can't even stay still for fear of death by their own bodies mechanics. They live only to prey and devour the sick adventurers who have given up on the Hunt and it's obstacles. At least they devour their treasure as well and I can enjoy cutting it from within their pale, slimy skin. I release them with skill, but not with enjoyment. They seem already dead anyway.
My horde is bigger now than it ever was and I have happily moved on to worthier creatures- I'm not counting the Cave Shriekers amongst them. Prey with more intellect and skill awaits, though and I have missed the challenge.

In an aside- remember to watch out for Clerical curses. Cen has been paid back in kind, a Hunt I enjoyed and was aided in, but all the same... Goo is a hindrance.

My plan seemed a bad one just as we passed the start... Too late!

Though the summons has been reduced to a soft murmur once more.
The thirst abated but not sated. A hastily patched dam holding back the flood tides.
In the interim; My trove will accumulate again.
One desire fulfilled, one held at bay-
It'll do for the nonce.

The tattooist does what he pleases apparently. At least the splatters I requested look right.

Languorous days stretch and linger while the Hunt beckons...
Beginning whispers; a request at first, but growing stronger as days lengthen into Fall.
I resist, refrain. Barely.
Lazy seasons should inspire restfulness.
Heat seeping into bone.
I feel the urge to trail and stalk instead.
To release the trapped bird from within the beast as it pounds faintly behind its ivory carved cage.
Thrumming. I hear it, feel it, taste it- wafting on a soft summer breeze.

A loss of self or an awakening.
Curbed for now, I return each night to dream, but perhaps soon I will heed it with finality and become nothing but the hunter.

Flaws--
A sinking miasma, it festers and grows. Weakness within that should be snuffed and smothered like the flickering candle's flame. Pity is not comfort, it's a false salve on a sullied wound. Misleading kindness. Self assuaged guilt disguised as understanding. Such delusions we fool ourselves with. Why would I offer such a thing or seek it for that matter? To Hunt it only-- a formidable foe.
There is an old tale...
If you behead the monster it simply grows more heads. You must kill it with cleverness to be the true Hunter.