Day 2 - Chapter 2 I had finished my report on the city of Meth'raya, the city of the living dead. I had presented the pronouncement and he scanned it over with his cold, calculating eyes. He looked up at me piercingly and I knew what I was in for. "You are quite insane, Mister Beauson." He spoke calmly as his voice resonated through the stone chamber that the thrones were sat in.
"But sir! It is all true! I have a book and-and map!" I pleaded, placing the book and map on the table in desperation. He looked over them once again, but he could not have possibly been convinced of it, as he stared up at me again coldly. "We shall make a trip out there, see if this is all some cock-and-bull story or a truth. You are dismissed." I opened my mouth to speak after him, but he was through, as he had inclined his crowned head at the guard to his left, ordering him silently to see me out. I placed my things back in the burlap-hide bag and fell a bit behind the guard. T
Day 1 - Chapter 1 Ah yes, my journey. I was exploring the barren roads in the deep wilderness, searching for ruins. Alas, the only thing I accomplished was getting my boots and cloak dirtied and catching a slight cold. But deep enough, I did find an old pair of pillars, that lead into a sparsely populated city. Well, it was populated by sentient skeletons, who helped me get rid of my cold and let me wait out the storm in their city. I asked one of the skeletons whom looked like a scholar, since he still had the remnants of a large white beard and a dirty brown cloak. He gave me a dusty book that spoke of an ancient city named Meth'raya, which was cursed by a noble mage when passing by and was received with substandard hospitality. I had actually come across a ruin, to my own surprise and awe. I marked the city on my map and rode back to my home in the main city to write my report for our Lord Morys de Cobham. And my name? I am just a lowly archeologist. I am Frances Beauson
In Due TimeAh the start of my journey.
It wasn't a smooth one.
It was storming down, the hemming of my coat that dropped near my feet on the horse was dirtied with mud from the unpaved roads, and my boots were filthy. I write this from the sanctity of my study, with it's aged oak paneling, and the solid bookcases that complimented the desk in front of me. You may not know who I am, but I will tell you.
In due time.
Depression is Acidic Ah yes, depression. It is the white hot lake I tumble in day to day. It sears my vocal chords and throat until I am unable to speak; it bites at my muscles on my arms, making me weak. This depression is deep, and strong, as the current whips me around from daylight to darkness. The brief periods of calm is my only solace to drag myself along it's tides, trying to get away.
But to what cost?