*Eivind’s clumsy scrawl bypasses a tiny scorch mark with a smeared tail of ash; branded into the center of the page like a shadow meteor propelled across parchment.*

Lately I’ve spent so many marcs in the Caer’s garden that a pair of guards has begun to give me looks. I think they suspect me derelict; a pest loitering the castle grounds. Not that they’re entirely off. It’s likely I should be sleeping elsewhere, anyhow, lest they ban me outright.

In hopes of easing any possible misgivings, I’ve set up a camp of sorts elsewhere; atop the largest hill south of the plains. From here, I can view the ocean. I can feel its moisture, and smell its brine. There are two rose bushes - one red, and one white - and if I sit near enough, I catch wind of them, too. Here, unattended by guards, I can really unwind. I can smoke tobacco without fear of reproach. I can recline in the soft grass, with little risk that my back might protest. I can adjust and scratch and belch and cough; all of those little impolite and unsavory acts that aren’t considered court appropriate. It’s nice. A different sort of relaxation. A freer one.

The only fault I can find in it is that those who know the garden to be my usual haunt won’t know where to find me. One such fellow in particular, I suppose I’ll have to go to him. I think I might owe him an apology. Sooner or later, I’ll learn to be less prying…

At least, I’d like to think so.
For now,
E.D.

Hello.
… Am I supposed to greet you?
I’ve never kept a journal before, but… Something about having one now felt right. Like, maybe I’d be able to make better sense of some things if I wrote them down. Now that I’m doing it, it feels a bit silly.

Let me try again…

Dear Diary, (Hah!)
This turn has been an unremarkable one. I suffered (yes, suffered) a one-marc stint in training - only to give up when carelessness secured three trips to the monument. I was sloppy. I think it was because I didn’t want to be doing it. Maybe I was giving myself a reason not to. That’s a strange thing to consider. That I might rather die - not once, not twice, but thrice! - than to endure another splitmarc of the mundane.

Instead, I’ve spent my time lounging the benches of the Caer’s garden. I find it relaxing, being there, in spite of the unforgiving stone. The fresh air; the scent of roses and wildflowers. During the day, ‘rifter’s rays warm me from the outside-in. At night, little strung up lanterns keep company with the stars. If I squint hard enough, those orbs all blur together - and I can imagine they’re one of those fancy ornate frames. The golden ones, with the pretty leafing designs. A mount of the night sky, suspended on the wall of something much, much bigger.

I spoke of the stars recently with someone. We speculated what they might be; why they might be. I don’t really know what I think. I never really thought about it until then, but I like the thought that there could be other places among the stars. Like ours, but with their own conscious things; their own landscapes, customs, and gods. Like, we’re just this small speck of thread in this immense, impossible tapestry. If we could travel to those places, I wonder… Would we be welcomed, or spurned?

Maybe journal-keeping has encouraged more deep-thinking than I was prepared for.
For now,
E.D.