So one of the wandering traders that passed through the ruins had a few things I needed: some arrows, more flint, a new whetstone, some bread neither too fresh nor too old. I managed to nick this old tome while he wasn't looking, thinking it was a manual for alchemy.
Luckily he hadn't gone too far when I realized my folly. In return for a pen and a few bottles of ink, I gave him an extra silver coin. He didn't ask why, but I have a feeling that he didn't care. He was probably trying to get rid of this old thing anyways. Less weight to carry, less effort on his mules.
So here I am, a journal of all things. I guess I should've started with my name. My name? It's Arya. At least that's what they called me at the Academy. How many years has it been? Six? Maybe eight? At least? Hard to tell how long its been while being out here. Bygone are the days of innocence. Now is the time of survival.
Shigra insists I mention her. She's a wildcat of a sort. Pretty tame though if you ask me. Thanks to her, the local crones have insisted that they catch less rats in their traps. Don't know if that's a good thing.
I live by myself, with Shigra, out here in what I just call the Ruins. The old birds insist that I call it by its original name. It was their city, and they all insist that its still theirs. I happen to agree with that. Between the few that live here, myself, and maybe the occasional traveler, no one else inhabits this place.
Despite the city being in ruins, I think it looks better this way.there are no roofs to block the view of the stars. The few fires that the crones and I make, are soft and ambient. You can hear the trees rustling in the wind if you stray close enough to the city outskirts. You can hear the wolves hunting their prey in the dark. The birds sing and the fireflies dance. So tranquil. So beautiful. So natural.
Time moves slowly out here. And that's probably for the better. Gives an elf time to think. It allows for space to breathe. Time doesn't exist really out here. The world's heart beats with the rising and setting of the sun. That is my clock. It slows in the spring and summer. It picks up in the fall, with winter at times being perpetual.
And that's life now. No more rigor and stringent rules and regulation. Just life. Living. Breathing. It's freedom. And I have no intention of going back to my old life any time soon.
--- Entry #2 Under the blue skies in a broken tower The Ruins ---
~~~
We had a visitor today. Not exactly out of the ordinary since there was a storm last night. Whether by luck or through wit, he managed to evade the traps laid by the crones, and found himself shelter under one of many broken roofs. The crones, imperceptibly to all but to those who know them, were perturbed by the new presence. Their worries were mine as well. As we live a somewhat isolated existence, here in our dusty homes, naturally, we all have a distrust of newcomers. Most are thieves looking for someplace secretive to hide away their ill-gotten goodies. Others are convicts or murderers from either side of the border, looking for a place to camp and make their home. Others still are refugees, trying to make their way either north or south and were hoping to find a moment of solace within these worn and storied halls. While very few are like me. Abandoned, willingly or forcefully, by society, and somehow managing to make it here by themselves, only to find that the crones are neither kind nor unwelcoming to us. If they manage to stay here long enough, then they'll come to understand that the crones are just being cautious for their own safety, and that no one here, once established, is ever truly alone.
The visitor, though, is of the more common sort. a day or two before, an Elvish patrol had entered through the eastern side of the ruins, in search of this particular fellow. Of course, it was a hunting party, with trackers and their pets among their sort. From their shouting, I could surmise that the elf they were searching for had stolen something of value, and murdered its owner, who was of notable value to the Elfish courts. Whether it was an official or not, I could not tell. Either way, for this conniving thief to have led such unwelcome guests to our crumbling abode, was more than enough reason for the crones to want to enamor for no longer than is required.
That being said, we confirmed these accounts via he who is named "The Old Man." The Old Man is a crone that most elf and dwarf patrols are familiar with. He is the one the traveling merchant stays with when he passes through. And he is the face of the ruins, if the ruins required a face to begin with. And thanks to him, most pass through, unaware of the fact that there are more than just a single pair of intelligent eyes watching their every move. Being adept at the natural arts, the crones managed to cast a unique spell over the ruins so that those passing through would have an almost metaphysical feeling of their backs being watched. It was a simple warding spell, meant to dissuade those of weak heart.
I remember when I first got here, I had this feeling come over me as if at any moment, a hand from the darkness would reach out and touch my shoulders. I couldn't sleep the first night, nor the second nor third. By the fifth however, I had realized that the closer I was to the outskirts of the ruins, the less I felt this sense of innate dread. As time flew, and I came to live to learn with this abnormal sense of paranoia, my psyche adapted to this feeling. Instead of shunning this idea of being watched, I welcomed it. Because at least that's how I knew I most definitely was not alone here, in this place. Yeah I had met the Old Man right from the get go, but I didn't know about the others who were going on and about their business along side the Old Man.
That took time. Months. Years even. Over time, as I proved to them that I wasn't just a normal passerby who was sheltering temporarily, they came to understand that I meant as much harm to them as I do the wind blowing through their homes. At times, the wind is a gentle, cool, crisp breeze streaming across the treetops. Other times, it's a howling gale of a hurricane, venting its fury upon the earth and those who tread upon it.
As I came back here, again and again, further establishing myself as a resident, the crones, more and more, grew to first tolerate, then welcome my presence. I was another pair of eyes the guard their sanctuary against all outsiders. I was another voice to talk to under the faint ember light late at night. But most of all, I was another way for them to gather goods that they needed. Crones are easier to spot and more memorable than an elf, to another elf. At times the crones will ask of me to get this or that from an outpost if at all possible. They understand that not everything can be bartered for. Often times, as the mood strikes me, I'll take on the odd job or two and go away for a few days. I'll have coin in my pocket and have given my fair share of good will to go around.
Back to the matter at hand, the visitor was easily a disturbance, and not one we planned for. So the crones came to me with a proposal, "Lure him into our trap, and we'll let you have his bounty for yourself."
The proposal made sense to me. The crones can't be bothered with collecting coin. And they don't like interacting with the Elvish enforcers especially.
