Wondrous as it may be, Esterland is now beyond us and the forests we tread have many terrors waiting.
If the few tales shared among the men are true, there are demons lurking in every corner...waiting to claim our souls, or release them from this captive existence?

Whatever the case may be, our owners have decided to bypass the border to Drakon and instead move through its Eastern woods where only relatively few might be able to pass.

A few men have already been killed trying to escape, and those that survived might as well fall to the wild animals or the agents of the Blades of the Wolfslayer.
The most unfortunate among survivors might be picked up by the Hounds of Pero, the Wolf God to be used for their own dark purposes.

I, though, consider myself relatively lucky to be owned by a rather respectable bunch of people.

It's true that many tasks we're forced to do tend to be harsh and claim a lot of our strength in return for barely any feed.

As an indentured servant, it's kind of expected that you're a man capable of taking on the objective of helping to build large castles and/or additions to such structures.

Gifts such as writing and the ability to count, such things don't seem to count here.
Still I was granted a small diary and a pencil to keep around should I wish to keep myself busy with such.

Mine seems to be a strange tale, though; while this might be the first time I've ever written in a diary, it doesn't quite feel like it.
My understanding of language and writing is far superior to that of the other men here, and therefore I must conclude that I probably have more sophisticated origins elsewhere.
Yet I didn't have any sense of familiarity anywhere; one of the men told me he recognized me from what was the “Young” household, and he knew me simply as Matthew.
Matthew it be, then.

According to this man named Michael, I was a human man once with a pretty nice job keeping books for the house of Young.
Hours were good, company was good, and even the women were supposed to be quite exquisite when one had time for them.

Sadly, I was one day bitten by a werewolf, although when I could not tell.
Nor how “young” any of them were, thinking it a silly name for a family.
One day one of theirs was arrested, and the rest were either banished or killed in battle.

It was from that day on that many of the servants were stolen away, some to rivaling houses, and some to slave traders such as had happened to me.

Whether the house stood still I did not know, and neither did he.

It should be curious to note that after this encounter I did not see Michael again; he was an odd young man, with white hair and the bluest eyes I'd ever seen...not even fit for slaves like us, with that scrawny body of his.

Who knows, he could just as well have been a devil in disguise!
Imagine that, a demon in our midst..but for whom would he have deemed to look?

If my fellows have informed me well it should now be the twenty-eighth of Frostbirth.
As a new day is soon to be upon us, I steal my last hours of sleep back from the night.

Matthew

Second of Snowfall
Alas! It seems that our path has been blocked by snow and ice.
With food scarce and the weather quite tumultuous, we will have to find a place of bedding soon before lives are wasted.

According to our captors, we should soon arrive at a little border town by the name of Kazan.
Whether the locals would even deign to accept the cursed among their ranks for a night is to be doubted, even as we are given our herbs for the coming moon.

It is such a shame, as other than our nightly fur we are equal to them; men of flesh and blood, and good conscience as well.

That we should be owned by others for this fact just betrays a fundamental flaw in the thinking of these people; for our misfortune, we are labeled as murderers in the night.
No, we are simultaneously victims and aggressors for even existing.
If there should ever be any doubt of our sanity, I would gladly rally the cause; not to pretend to help others as I mindlessly shout empty words, but to cut loose my chains and those of others in the process.

We are to deem ourselves “fortunate” for being “granted” a lifetime of work rather than a swift death, that we have been “accepted” by our dear employers rather than turned away for a life in the wilderness.

Their hospitality is far too welcoming, and their refusal to let go an accurate reflection of this.

At least the townsfolk that shun us do so in honesty rather than deceit.

But the cold is affecting my hands, and I hope to be able to write again soon.
May the Mother of the World help us all; and if not, then all the gods be spat upon.

M