As I lay here in the cabin of a friend’s ship, I should be content. I should be attentive to my newfound lovers and their delightful chattering; sinewy Dwarven muscle pressed against my left side, supple Djeirani flesh against my right. Instead, I stare listlessly out the window, an absent companion, until they sleep and I scribble my thoughts down on parchment. I have rarely been a worrisome man, yet I find myself paralysed now by an oppressive knot churning in my gut.
Something doesn’t feel right. It’s in the air, it’s in my blood and it’s in my bones.
I have walked a path of moments where each piece of time has eagerly moved aside to make way for the next. I have faced life as much as death, yet now, it is as though the moments have ceased to come. From sea to sea, from all the great things I have done to all the unremarkable or painful experiences I’ve endured, none have felt quite as this does. I would say I am restless, impatient, or anxious, but those words would not begin to do this unbearable tension justice.
An unnatural, gilded streak crackles across the heavens, as if the world itself warns me.
Something is coming.
Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 8th of Severin, in the year 511 MA.