Edgar Albert Young, first of Sun's Kindling

On this incandescent first day of summer, I spent a fine amount of time with some of our servants from the library.
Since it wouldn't befit a young lord-to-be of the Young family to merely gallivant about with the local damsels, I decided that Blondie and Silvermane would make for a great set of opponents in games of the mind.
At the risk of sounding like they’re nothing more than their nicknames, both Sarah and Matthew were excellent players: the former demolished my pack of cards, the latter absolutely crushed me in a game of Kings (a board game most closely analogous to chess) and did so five times in succession.

It's quite interesting how well the latter servant had healed up since his rather unfortunate brush with one of those lunar daemons a few weeks ago.

No semblance of a scar even remained on the shoulder where he was bitten, and for some strange reason he's been perfectly able to control himself upon full moons as well; I've seen his beastly form, and for whatever purpose it looked more graceful, focused, nothing like the common rabble the monster hunters sometimes speak of slaying.

Uncle Bertrand said he'd better have been shipped off to the North-eastern commune, where the sick and cursed are said to live in a relative harmony, but I personally came forward and vouched for his sanity and loyalty and declared that I would personally get rid of whomever would do that to him.

Nevertheless, while Sarah is by all means a pretty and well-versed girl, Matthew has been looked down upon, shunned by the rest.
I can see in his eyes the growing unrest at his situation, stuck in a home where nobody wants him around despite having done no wrong to any of us.

Since he was found at the northern gates of our motherland Daventry, nobody has been able to figure out where he truly came from: whether his memory had failed him due to the extreme cold or he simply didn't wish to tell us, none of us knew what to do other than take him in.

He had no interest in women, no interest in violence, but I did sometimes catch him … reading.
He's read about at least all of the nine Builders of the World to some extent, and some of the other obscure myths such as the Father of Wolves and the King of Thorns as well.
To top it all off, all he was even dressed in was a loincloth.
Rags for the frozen North?
That brittle young man with his silver hair may have become a friend of mine, but I will never stop wondering what madness took him there...or what truly happened to him where our men found him.

If one wonders why I'm writing so much about him and not the girl, it's because the girl might just be utterly unremarkable. Good servant, but she doesn't have the same air of intrigue to her.
But Matthew? One could write novels merely about his mysterious aura, the way even his eyes seem like there's more to them than meets...the eye. Of course.

And I?
Uncle Bertrand has been recently invited to the Queen's castle for a feast, and I intend to go with him.
The cat people to the east have always struck me as an odd bunch, and to be fair...from what I heard about the Queen, she's not one to trifle with. Always be forward, never lie, but above all bad things come to those who question her.
Even so I'm not quite sure about the stories revolving around her: she may be a feline person, and of course she and her race differ from us common men, but that doesn't sound like adequate legal cause for claiming the land of people you've run afoul of.

Stories of nutritional warfare to starve the southern gnoll tribes into submission, blackmailing owners of land with relatives in captivity, and I've heard she even tried to acquire land where another fire mage was supposed to live.

The Council of Rulers have already rejected many of her offers for fusion and other things related to land ownership, according to Uncle Bertrand, and though I'm sure they all want peace for everyone…
I find this difficult to trust in.

But if we're all careful and on our best behaviour, the fifth of Sun's Kindling ought to be a downright terrific celebration even taking into account all our differences, small and large.
If my ears did not deceive me, I even heard about the Queen's young blind son taking a seat at the event.
Suppose it's time to get packing.

Edgar Albert Young, Second of Sun’s Kindling
Bertrand, Father and I have taken some time to go over the basics of the feline people’s customs today, compared to ours.

While we humans tend to sleep at night, these cats are usually at their most alert during that time; some may choose to adopt a similar sleeping schedule should they live together with a human, but it’s not uncommon for many to take a long nap after noon.

While most of us here at the Young estate live by the banner of Daventry and worship the Blind Goddess, the felines to the east go by the banner of two nations: the golden sparrow of Esterland and the battle-axe of the southern desert state of Ardesia.
While worship of Ana is certainly not uncommon over there, it’s usually the Feathered King who’s most deeply honoured by most of the people, though there are also some statues of the Two Dragons scattered throughout the nation.

And what of fine dresses such as ours?
Being that we are a mostly hairless species and they’re quite the opposite, clothing mostly has a decorative function of decency for them.
While they do cover themselves as we are often wont to do, the hottest of days usually make it much more difficult as they strain to properly regulate their temperatures.

And then basic greetings: whilst we may shake hands with and embrace the people we respect, they seem to prefer a proper bow and maybe a salute over this; one reason being that sometimes they may forget to retract their claws, which could be extremely harmful in such situations.

When it comes to food, we may have the most in common as both our races seem to be perfectly capable of digesting cooked meat and vegetables...though theirs is more reliant on fish and chicken, and dairy can be difficult to digest.
According to Bertrand it took centuries for them to even be able to properly process wine in their bodies, and who can blame them for trying?
Most of our bags have been packed, all that’s left now is a good night’s rest.

Edgar Albert Young, Third of Sun's Kindling
We've stopped on our way to the royal castle, in a small village of farmers whose name I can't currently even pronounce.
We've rented most of the inn, which is...humble, yes, but has a quite hospitable air.
The innkeeper has offered us his finest wines and ales for the evening, and I've had quite a few as well.

A few large roasted hogs, freshly slaughtered, and apparently some smart man even figured we would appreciate one of their local “monsters” of the lake: a demonic black monstrosity of a fish, with a big nest of sharp teeth protruding from its face and deep white eyes.
I couldn't even count the many pounds it must have weighed, but it was nearly enough to collapse our table until someone had the idea to cut it into large pieces and divide it.

I have no idea how we managed to consume all that, but so we did.
I, Uncle Bertrand, and at least ten other men under the Young banner managed to make this possible, but even one fewer among us could have made it so much more difficult.

All in all, if this was just a hearty welcome then I'd fear to see what counts as a feast in this eastern country.

Edgar Albert Young, Sixth of Sun's Kindling, half past midnight
It's been a long day, but allow me to recount what I managed to keep in memory.

I, Uncle Bertrand and the rest of our company were thoroughly checked by a group of Blades when approaching the capital of Esterland.
They were searching not just for werewolves, but anyone they suspected of being a Shade or Night's Eye as well.
Thankfully, it didn't take too long at all.
But then came the golden-clad felines of the Queen's Royal Guard, to check on all the few weapons we carried with us, checking our inventory and bags for poisonous herbs or other dangerous material.
One of the men joked at the expense of those who searched us, suggesting maybe they'd better search his posterior in case he'd been hiding a small shipment of illicit weeds all this time.

Lucky him; he'd been smart enough to smoke it all up during our stay at the inn, liberally sharing it with the rest of the crew and even the innkeeper himself.
They got the point, shrugged, and finally allowed us to pass.

Then there were the introductions to basic staff for noblemen, as the soldiers were invited to join in the deliberations for the common folk: tasting cheap but still finely-crafted wines, food, wenches, the usual.

I and Uncle Bertrand got a friendly handshake from the court mage and the queen's right hand, Archibald of Ardesia, an aged old fire mage clad in scarlet robes with grey strands of hair and a very mild stubble: his eyes were blazing red even at the age of fifty, his skin gaunt and pale and wrinkled; yet he seemed to have a genuine joy in seeing us arrive.

Uncle Bertrand was only forty-three himself, but he'd told me stories in the past of how some mages had used so much power it caused their bodies to degrade as a result of what they'd achieved.

As we entered the castle we got a few brief sights; the throne room with all its golden luster and flagpoles with various insignias of conquered regions, the dining hall with many large and long tables where we saw many strange people, including what seemed like a dragon, but I couldn’t get a good look.

Sadly there was no time for introductions as we pressed onto the western spiral staircase into the personal quarters of Archibald himself.

The queen was to be momentarily excused, as she had been taking care of her son who was said to have suffered a spat of anxiety and had yet to recover.
Since she never arrived, Archibald shared with us his favourite...it wasn't ale, it wasn't any sort of wine I'd ever had before.
It was sweet and flavourful, with elements of cherry and honey combined into a slightly foamy...brew, of sorts.

I'm still trying to recover from that, it hit harder than I thought.

Lord Archibald praised Uncle Bertrand to the frozen skies for his excellent work in both bookkeeping and helping oversee the royal library's acquisition of new entries and revisions based on original source material.
He also complimented my looks and demeanour, claiming there could have been so many opportunities for me here if only the queen had a few spare daughters.
While internally that might have sounded...awkward to me, I gracefully accepted it as a compliment and downed the rest of my cherry brew.

Uncle Bertrand is sleeping in the room next to mine, and I'm to turn in soon.
I hope to chronicle more tales of amusement and the continuation of the young prince's feast tomorrow.

Edgar Albert Young, Sixth of Sun's Kindling, ten in the morning

A young golden feline servant in fancy dress by the name of Brann brought us our breakfast: large silver plates with a healthy dose of freshly grilled bacon and eggs, accompanied by large silver flasks and various bottles of orange and other fruit juices, with a knife and bread and a little dish of butter to accompany that as well as a large selection of fresh fruits.

I suspect he saw the mild, though unintentional fleet of distrust in my eyes; even after a few days I still can't quite figure out eye contact with these people.
Should I look at them closely as to simply acknowledge they're there, or avoid their gazes out of respect for their privacy?
Uncle Bertrand already told me to cut it out a couple of times during private moments: though we may be different in terms of looks, we should treat one another just like we treat any other.
Yet I'm sure we got ourselves looked at more than a few times already, even by the more respectable types who were strolling through the castle.
Then again, most of so-called “nobility” tend to glare at everyone who doesn't meet their standards anyway.

But the food the servant brought us...was much more than satisfactory, and one could taste that this would have been approved by even the pickiest of eaters in the kingdom.

We finished our meal and went to relax for an hour in the castle courtyard, where it was still silent owing to the fact that most of the visitors would still have been wetting their beds from the amount of alcohol consumed the evening before.

We just left the baths, and are currently preparing for our first meeting with the Queen herself.
According to Archibald the young prince Edward is doing much better today as well, hopefully feeling fit enough to join us in the throne room.

Edgar Albert Young, Sixth of Sun’s Kindling, two in the afternoon
The Queen stood magnificent in her red and gold garb, and commanding in her tone of voice and posture.
I struggled to even note all the various beautiful things that stood in the throne room, from the paintings of the queen and her diplomatic relationship with the gnolls to old pictures of her together with the sadly departed king Anthony.
The tall black beauty stood in contrast with the smaller battle-hardened grey tabby cat which would have been adorable...had it not seemed so much like a human in its ferocity.

The room was quiet, with even the few guards which stood there resolving to absolute silence once the queen rose from her throne, her glaring green eyes affixed upon us as Archibald made introductions.
The young prince Edward, a snow-haired cat man with pearly white eyes, sat beside the queen’s throne in a more modest chair, bearing only bright blue robes and garb for the moment.

He seemed anxious, full of fear...but something in my heart told me he had suffered through a lot in his life just to survive to this point.

After Archibald’s initial introductions, he had decided to go over and give the prince a sturdy hand so he could come to meet us.

The prince shook Bertrand’s hand, and after a moment of stammering he intuitively seemed to know where to find mine.
It was awkward, but I allowed it out of respect for him.

How this kingdom had gained such an impotent heir no one could’ve known, but I genuinely felt pity for the poor boy.

It was like watching a child in indescribable pain, even though his mother tried his best to raise him...for a role he was possibly never going to be fit for.

After this strange and scary introduction, the five of us decided to sit at the same table:
I and Bertrand on one side, Marjory and Edward on the other, and Archibald at the head of the more modest table.

Marjory and Bertrand mostly discussed politics, rations and other boring things while I got stuck with the prince’s more...personal ramblings.
He mentioned to me how life was so incredibly hard because of his...disability, as he called it.
Blindness is a terrible thing to wish upon any living being, but in his case…
With humans, it is said that those born blind learn to rely upon and develop their other senses more efficiently.
Touch and hearing become more amplified, every single little detail becomes that more important to take notice of.

But with cats, their hearing is mostly superior to that of the general human being.
In the sad case of the prince it meant nothing but torture in crowded places, overloading his senses with noise and causing his mind to frequently go into the most horrid of turmoils.
Having heard that, I cannot help but pity this heir of the queen and hope that some day someone finds a way to alleviate his suffering, bring him peace in his days.

When I mentioned being a librarian and some of the help in literary acquisitions our family did for the castle, he did chuckle at the thought.
Of course words and letters mean nothing to eyes unable to process them, but he saw it as more of a curiosity; what more mysteries could possibly lie in the world of parchment and books, eh?

Archibald...sometimes I could feel him staring at me.
Perhaps out of curiosity, never with a malicious feeling to it.
Maybe he admired my kindness for helping such a lonely young man find some relief in expressing his frustrations with life.
In either case, too much wine was had by at least four of us, though the young prince abstained and preferred to stick with life’s essence; water.

After the conversations drew to a close, the Queen turned to me and spoke my name.
Of course I stood right up, turning all my attention to her as she approached me and Bertrand.
She thanked me and my uncle for our time, to invite us for the next round of the feast in the evening.
After having written this I intend to take at least two hours of sleep to recover from all the wine.
While I might still be sober, my head is starting to feel the consequences of consumption.

Uncle Bertrand, four in the afternoon of the Sixth of Sun’s Kindling
My dear nephew, I understand very well that you wish to use this journal to chronicle all the wondrous things you’ve seen thus far but would it hurt you to just give it a break and enjoy the moment every now and then?

After your little nap, we’ll meet with the Queen at seven.
And for the grace of the blind, sort your hair out.