Edgar Albert Young, Tenth of Sun’s Blaze
Ven made decent work of teaching me to use my body most efficiently.
Bending the knee feels so much different now, but I cannot understate the massive difference in comfort I feel compared to the very first few days.
I feel, dare I say it, better than I ever have despite my ill circumstances; on the physical front, at least.
My new senses are still strange to me, but given time I should be more than able to get used to it; these claws are still a major risk when I change clothes; and sadly all the worst smells are doubly amplified.

While Ven has been a strangely excellent teacher to me, Tamara had me reconnecting with a feeling of normality that had been sorely lacking throughout the last month.

After my first work day bringing food around, we talked together in my room.
We told one another tales of home; she had once lived in a mighty keep under the protection of her kind brother, although she neglected to tell me the name of the house that belonged to it.

Her family was on good terms with King Anthony long before Marjory was a major element in Esterland’s aristocracy, and they helped to fight off the Daughters of Arnac’h; mighty gnoll warriors led by an illustrious old female of great sorcerous strength only ever referred to as “Mother”.
Eventually they forged a pact between the Daughters and their family to keep their part of Ardesia safe, but everything changed when a mysterious girl known as the Scarlet Child was discovered.
Towns pillaged and burned to the ground, ancient temples smashed to ruins and effigies of the Feathered King cast down.

It was at that moment that Marjory rose from her place in the shadows and burned Mother’s legion to a crisp with naught but her power of will.
She saved the Scarlet Child’s life, but the loss of life associated with this great conflict had consequences lasting long afterwards into the present day; these old tribes are still starving under all the sanctions placed upon them by the Kingdom of Esterland, of course, but their general lack of trade with the rest of the world aside from the occasional shipment of food from the mainland makes it so that every day is a hard one; even the wolf king Hubert of Westkeep decries the idea that pain should beget more pain in the long run.

But in rebuilding after the Ardesian Blaze, her family was one of the casualties: her brother never to be seen again, she was forced into servitude to the Queen from the young age of nine and their keep to be used as a royal military base, stripped of all past honours and privileges.

I do not know what to feel about her, but she does seem to be mostly pure at heart despite telling of the worst experiences.
It was also impressive to hear heart-wrenching stories like these from a mouth so resolute; she never stuttered or flinched, never stopped in recounting the awful events that shaped her youth.
Every day’s a new day, she said, and no point in seeking to cling to the past.
But the night never forgets, she muttered softly afterwards afore planting me down unto my bed and covering me up.

This disturbs me greatly.

Edgar Albert Young, Twelfth of Sun's Blaze
The heat has been incredible the past few days, except for the kitchen where the people work on cold dishes for the season.
Word has it that soon we will have to prepare for the coming of the Old Black One, the Oracle of the East.
He does not eat as I or the cat people do: he prefers his meals fresh and raw.
It is exhilarating yet terrifying to think of: one of the last Builders to still be in the flesh, beyond myth and still firmly rooted in reality.
Ven has been despatched to hunt for the perfect meal in the nearest woods, which indicates to me that this visit may be rather soon.

I served Archibald a fresh red wine bottled in Kazan as well as a bowl of fresh fruit; a simple request, I supposed.
Then we shared in the delights, and had ourselves a conversation in private.

I asked why Ven seemed so strangely disconnected from his violent behaviour since my transformation, so seemingly ignorant of all the things he had done to Brann, my uncle.

I do not know what I expected, but Archibald refused to answer me on this. “For my own good”, he said.

So why a silvercat, I asked then.
Said it reminded him of an old pet cat he had, also named Terri.
I suppose he had friendly memories, and wished to treat me with some sorely lacking affection.
But I am not a pet. I am a person, someone who can feel and hurt.
Nevertheless I saw this as a compliment, even if a bit strange.

So what about the rumours of a highly honoured guest, then?
The Black One has announced from afar his coming to give a speech to the kingdom, possibly a warning of things to come.
Though Archibald might be able to communicate with mighty creatures like these through his magickal equipment, there is always the possibility of some details not quite filtering through.
Speech through the mind sounds like an incredibly invasive method, but in his case there is great mental resilience to manipulation from outside sources.
He showed me his great dark orb: nothing was displayed at the moment, but I could feel the power surging through its veins as if it were a living thing.

The King of Daventry and Jon Exter, being heads of the Slayers of the North, had already been invited to witness the Black One’s coming but after last month I doubt they would be willing.
While Old Vic had not been seen in the realms for ten years, I cannot imagine what it must be like to witness such a creature up close after such a long time.
Dark wings, hopefully less so when it comes to the words he offers us.

Lastly, Archibald discouraged me from getting too close with Tamara and Ven: while they might make for decent friends, both had been scarred through their childhoods to such a degree that there was a possibility they could turn on me.

So I pushed once more, demanding to know why Ven did not acknowledge me as the person whose uncle he brutally murdered.
He merely commented on the beauty of the Night’s Eye; the flower, he specified, not the gifted illusionists in employment of their nocturnal lord.
But the purpose, in the end, can be made to seem the same once one partakes in its aromatic scent.

After this he sent me out. At least the wine went to good use.

Edgar Albert Young, Thirteenth of Sun's Blaze
After another warm night, I awakened and got myself dressed as I had done the past few days.

Greeting me in the courtyard were Ven and…a not-so-stranger.
I instantly recognised Michael as he glanced to me and smiled a strange smile.
Unfortunately I had to return to kitchen work for an hour or two, but after that I was taken aside by the pale-haired young man for a talk out in the open whilst the rest were either still asleep or hard at work.
He handed me an envelope addressed to Edgar Young.
He said to me that the family would be moving their assets to another keep in Daventry, save the archive which is now royal property.
He seemed almost amused when he mentioned how hard of a time they had opening it, but assured me all was safe for the moment being.
Unfortunately my father would not be present for the Day, and the contents of the envelope should explain why that is so.
How did he recognise me? “I never forget a scent”, he said.

This is not an ordinary man, I must say, but thankfully he had something akin to positive news.
Akin to it, anyway.
Sarah had been assigned to taking care of Daventry's royal library whilst Matthew, due to strange circumstances, had managed to bombard himself into a position as Prince Frederik’s shadow.
This meant watching over him during the night but also anywhere else.
Apparently the king had grown quite fond of him quickly as well.
He is currently receiving formal training from Captain Exter himself to handle himself and enemies in mortal combat. Not only for his own protection but that of the Prince as well.

Who would have thought an old friend would be so fortunate?
Michael gave me a soft pat on the back before abruptly departing, expressing that he felt grief for my situation.

Lord Theodore Christopher Young, former Lord of the Kazan province
Tenth of Sun's Blaze, 749
Forgive me, my son, for I cannot imagine what pain you must have felt from the unfortunate passing of your uncle.
My dear brother Bertrand was certainly not without his flaws but I know he loved and cared for you like the son he never could have.

I pray that you also forgive me for often being too occupied to attend to you; all the responsibilities of a widower, especially a lord of an ancient and respected house, they weigh so heavy that unfortunately sometimes there arises the need to relegate certain tasks to another; even the most sensitive ones.
Bertrand was always there to take my place when you needed someone to care for you, from the very day you were born.

I cannot pretend that this was an ideal way to treat a son of an illustrious house like ours, nor any way to treat family in general.
But he was a beacon of light in dark times for all of us, and one that shall be honoured within our ranks forever.
May the Lady welcome his soul as a dear friend.

I am also glad to read that you have been treated well, even having had the chance to make an acquaintance with the elusive Prince of Esterland himself; a young man so sensitive that even the slightest of noise would shatter him, I do not envy him.

I just pray that in the time you have been kept, no more harm or fear has come to you and eventually Marjory sees the light of reason.
She and I used to be quite decent friends despite our many differences, and King Anthony was one of the most eloquent spokesmen for peace between the kingdoms the world had seen since the end of the great war.
The few thought crimes Bertrand had been accused of are surely no reason for execution, but rest assured we will take it up with not only the King of Daventry but also the Council of Rulers and the Sixteenth Arbiter.

Now I and the rest of the family have been taken to the Exter estate in Daventry, as a temporary measure for the moment being.
We live not too far from the capital, and despite the cold nights we have at least had the opportunity to sit back and enjoy the sights for once.

I hope to be able to help you regain your freedom soon.

Stay strong, my son.

Signed,
Your loving father.

Edgar Albert Young, Fourteenth of Sun’s Blaze
It is such a pain to have to deny reality to my very own father, damn the queen and her wiles.
By the gods I hope the Black One devours her if she upsets his grace.

In either case his fresh meal has been caught: a mighty stag from the great forest of Daventry, kept fresh through surely magickal means for the long trip home.

In a few hours the honoured guest will finally arrive.
We gather somewhere outside the castle, and Michael arranged for me to come with him, even offering to keep my journal safe for me so I could chronicle what is surely the event of a lifetime.
The stones of the old ritual site should be an indication as to where the Black One should arrive to tell his tales and prophecies.

So far the Sixteenth Arbiter and Mother Radi’a have been confirmed to come, as well as Michael, Tamara and Ven.
Also coming are a representative of the Council of Rulers, Duke Ferdinand of Northern Ardesia and the Dragon Child of the South in her first major appearance.

Finally, the court illusionist Rufus the Grey has arrived to represent King Hubert of Westkeep; rare to see wolf men, even under normal circumstances, but even more rare to see fully functional mages so young as himself. Surely he is no older than twenty, and he and Archibald seem to have quite the time relating personal adventures with magick.

The body of the stag has been laid down on the ritual site, cornered by a thick wreath of crossmint and other heavy smelling herbs.
An hour from now we should see the result. And I will be there to chronicle it from afar.

Torches lit, the glare of feline and lupine soldiers’ eyes from out of the dark distance.
Archibald, Rufus and Michael kneel on the ground in front of the flesh sacrifice.
Black One swoops down and makes a harsh landing.
His dark nostrils unleash a torrent of steam unto the cold night air, his golden chest exposed as he turns to his meal.
He wraps his leathery wings around himself to eat in peace.
Queen comes forward, dressed in simple robes as she leads her son with her.
Aside from the Black One, near silence.
Finally after a long time, these words carried by a deep, smooth but booming voice:
“For the sun in the north to rise once more, all false gods and kings must fall
Ere the pawns should rule their own lives, they would surely usurp our old halls
But before the fall of a nation come the rancid breath of devastation
Knowing that false kings must fall, the enlightened ones share with us their divine proclamation.
The blood of the Moon has come to clear the way.
The blood of the Vagrant now comes forth to establish unity.
And the blood of the Dragon comes in the end to balance out the odds.”

After this short and abrupt speech came forth the Sixteenth Arbiter; a young man by the name of Peter, surely no older than myself. Never caught his last name as with many other Divine Arbiters who only seem to go by their first names and their titles.
Short blonde hair, blue eyes, a silken robe with many religious icons woven into them in gold.
Par for the course for figures like these, I would suppose.
He knelt down unto his knees right in front of the Old Black One.

“Victor, Oracle of the East,” he said. “Your words have been duly noted by our chroniclers, and I am sure many others who heard them this night as well.
Yet it seems the words you shared with us today have been...more grim than some of us would have expected. What is it that we have done to offend the gods so vehemently that we deserve predictions of falls and proclamations?”
Both the Queen and Archibald seemed to flinch for a moment as the Arbiter broke religious protocol to ask such a strange, yet understandable question.

But the black dragon only chuckled for a few moments as his wings unfurled themselves and he exposed his golden chest to the wavering torchlight once more, his green eyes glaring to the young man as he towered above us all.

“I only share the visions that come to me, strange as they may seem.
I do not involve myself in the petty politicks of mortals, be they human or beast folk, cursed or in league with the Keeper of Dreams.
I do not involve myself with would-be conquerors of foreign lands, nor do I exactly care what they do to themselves.
All that I do for the sake of this world is to bring forth my predictions, and more often than not hope they never become truth.”

But then the Queen herself stepped forward in an act of pure insolence, to demand to know certain answers which might have been beyond us.

“But who is the Blood of the Moon, Victor? Surely as a child of the flame”
She was cut off rather quickly.

“The Moon Child will reveal himself to you as a dream of terror, Marjory,” the dragon sharply interjected as if to sneer at her, “and he will ruin you just like he will any other false ruler or would-be conqueror who popped up in the last few decades.
Consider yourself extremely fortunate that he will do so rather than I.
Because I could always use another meal, while he will most likely use more civil means to dispose of you.”

She stood back, silently bowing as if to acknowledge that she had nothing to say to him that would change his mind about her.

“If none here have the ambition to take my blood from me or challenge my power, I suggest you all go back to sleep and reflect on the words granted to you this night.
Farewell.”

With that final statement the company slowly disbanded, headed back to the castle as Tamara and Ven accompanied me.
Among those left behind were Michael, Archibald and Rufus who remained to converse with the old dragon.
The few gnolls who visited kept to their makeshift camps outside the castle walls, having been gifted fresh meat and water for their troubles and travels.
I suspect they too will depart after the night has passed.

It is at least one past midnight at this point, I suppose already the early hours of the Fifteenth of the month.
Tamara has promised to keep me company for the night after finishing some of her duties, which should be intriguing in its own right.

Edgar Albert Young, Fifteenth of Sun’s Blaze
I do not know what time it is, but there are musicians I can hear from the courtyard.
Tamara came and went, aiming to show me some of her affection and her wiles.
Maybe she was just piss drunk off of the many colourful drinks she’d had throughout the evening, I do not quite know.
Whilst I saw some other things as well, my family’s name was ultimately founded on a modicum of decency and modesty as well as discretion.
Maybe I was a stiff, maybe she was just a bit on the naïve side. But while I did reject some of her rude advances, she did give me...a kiss.
I never thought I would enjoy my time with such a rough appendage, but I suppose there is a first time for everything.

I am expected to serve food in the throne room today, as we still have a few special guests left unaddressed.

Edgar Albert Young, Sixteenth of Sun's Blaze
Yesterday was a tiring day until noon, where my shift ended and I was invited to spectate with Ven in the throne room.

After a brief audience with Rufus the illusionist, the Queen invited the elites of the pack of gnolls to the throne room.
Mother Radi’a, the first to enter, was an ugly aged amalgamation of rags and shaggy grey spotted fur, with a pale blind eye and nothing but a cane for support.
She smelt like death as she stepped forward to meet the queen.
I glanced aside to the more capable warriors.
Initially I thought they were male, but apparently I was quite mistaken.

Still, even for such strong creatures they seemed vastly underfed.
Their bones and muscles practically stuck out from underneath their flesh, their simple spears the only thing to support them as they went to the tables to get their fresh scraps of meat.
They were tired and famished, anyone could see this.
Some of them saw me glancing upon them, which made it necessary for me to avert my gaze.
Embarrassing to seem so embarrassed but I swear they had the most uncomfortable demeanour I had seen in a long time.

It was a most peculiar dialect that the Mother and the Queen spoke in, a mix of Eastern Ardesian but also a language I assume must have been from their leader’s home tribe.

They talked of food and the need for such as well as the lack of protection against basic illnesses such as fever and something slightly more peculiar.
Apparently a band of seafarers had recently dropped a large shipment of rusted swords and other weaponry deep into a river that was used for their local water supply, causing many of their consumers to contract various degrees of rust poisoning.
Since they have only few doctors and medical resources around, this has often turned fatal or permanently weakened those who survived the ordeal.

The queen rose from her throne and bowed to the Mother as she swore to send Archibald to tend to their water supply, send some shipments of fresh water and food as a form of disaster relief, and her personal selection of doctors to do their best to take care of those who still hadn’t died yet.

Curiously but unsurprisingly, nothing was ever said or inferred about these gnolls being able to take care of their own affairs after these events.
They were, just as I and Ven and Tamara, subject to the Queen’s dubious mercy and hers alone.
What a wonderful time to be alive.