Alliah

Mist

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  There's a small, leather-bound notebook tucked away somewhere within her personal belongings. It's modest in appearance, nothing particularly noteworthy or eye-catching, yet particular care and attention has been given to ensure its condition maintains. A small, thin pink ribbon spills out from the top like a lazy pink tongue that mocks onlookers who can't pry into its contents. Inside are her innermost thoughts, put to paper from her heart.

• • II. June 4th 2015, 10:52 pm

    The following pages contain script scrawled against the parchment identifying and labeling various herbs which have been delicately dried and pressed into the book, sealed to the pages with a single drop of wax to each. Late in the night the Author opens the book, delicate fingers grazing across the next empty page as if willing words to form without touching quill to parchment. She begins..
    
    What I had intended to only be a brief stopover in this town of Kingsrill has turned into an extended stay. I must confess, the thought of staying anywhere too long, of providing an opportunity for the Man in Desdemond to acquire knowledge of my whereabouts sends a chill into my very bones. Yet.. my feet have grown tired and my soul aches for the familiar; to wake each morning with even a vague semblance of the coming day, some idea of what to expect in the near future.
    
    I'm unsure if this desire will give rise to success or something more sinister, yet it is this that has driven me to rent a small apothecary in this town in the hopes of procuring some form of income and with that, my future safety against the Man. While I have little experience in the field, I believe I have sufficient knowledge to properly run this most recent business venture. I'm capable of identifying most of the herbs in our fair Kasuria as well as make recommendations for various ailments -- at least my travels have provided me with some amount of valuable information if not what I had truly been seeking.
    
    Primes bless me, for if this fails I truly have no other options. I'll be forced to set foot to path again and wander in fear in being found, or quite possibly, in fear of finding answers.
    
    With this, she concludes her entry.

  • I. May 16th 2015, 8:23 am

    The wax candle is but a stub having burned late into the night when the book is first opened, its spine pressed against the wooden grain of a desk in an unfamiliar room at an Inn. Alliah hovers above, the white pages exposed and naked of word or thought. The woman finds this particularly fitting as she muses above the empty journal, a tired smile twitching past her lips. This could be her own self-portrait, the pages just as vulnerable as she is; they to her own whims, she to the world.
    
    A few days back, as my tired feet made slow progress down the dirt road towards Kingsrill, I came upon a peddler with a pushcart. There was something familiar in his eyes, something that at the time I couldn't determine. It wasn't until I caught the first glimpse of myself in a mirror at a bath house that I was able to identify what it was: desperation, the same sort of deep-seated desperation I now see in myself.
    
    Stirring within me was a sense of pity for the man and so I came to purchase this book. Pity, I felt pity for a man who might as well been a reflection of myself. Weary, tired, and bereft of everyday conveniences. I'm ashamed and a fool, but at least I'm now a fool with a journal.
    
    Every day I rack my brain for solutions on how to repay the man in Desdemond. I'm aware that I must find somewhere to settle, to establish myself in even a meager employment, yet there's a force behind me that drives my feet to the ground, and dare I say.. a hope that with each new city, village or hamlet I'll be one step closer to finding what I'm searching for. I'm haunted by unanswered questions, day and night I'm being consumed by a force in which I have not the strength to fight.
    
    The wick of the candle begins to hiss and crackle, signifying its untimely death. As the light is snuffed out with a sigh and a stream of smoke left behind, the author retires to her bed to face yet another day.