Page 5 of Deadly Maiden

Year Five.

And underpaid. I have enough at home to buy Bollingham a hundred times over. It is just annoying to drag it here.

I cannot shift, much. My head hurts when I do. Even my cock hurts when I try. Now that is a real pain. I don’t need to fuck, but it is nice when one does so. The fae here are always rutting.

I decide not to write that down and lower the quill.

I have managed stunted wings and transformation for a few seconds, but it hurt so fiercely I had to stop. Repeated tries do nothing.

I cannot move Orish.

They named the battle after him. It’s something. The war is now theWar of the Chained King, the Usurper. I hear they have him chained near the palace in Tensorga. He sits on a rock escarpment on the seafront, getting his heart and other bits eaten nightly when the rancor crabs crawl onto his rock.

I guess drinking beer and watching baby necromancers is not that bad after all.

Thinking about how this has turned out…I pick up the quill to write some more.

No one else seems to have tracked the baby to here. I prefer that. This is my vow, my honor.

Year Five

Bored. Got another job. Gardening.

Fuck gardening. It’s a trivial hobby for the average unimaginative fae.

Perhaps I should kill her and be done with watching.

Year Six.

The pubs in Bollingham… okay there is only one, but it is good.

I have discovered a liking for beer.

Year Seven

If she is going evil, I wish she would simply commit to it!!!!

I hesitate, on the verge of crossing that out. I leave it be as evidence for next year to not be overwrought.

Year Eight

Should I cease doing this?

What else, though?

There is nothing else.

Wine here is also good.

Year Nine

The child, Wyntre, is nine, too, I think? She had a birthday party but I couldn’t see the cake. Children sang a song for her. She has friends. Is this how the lesser fae number years? Me, I have too many. I cannot count them all. Four hundred and twenty?

Damn. Spilled some lager on the page.

Will have to get more gold. Fuck all that climbing to my hoard. It’s dusty up there. The spiders are happy spinning webs. If anyone ever follows me, I could lose it. Or if they read this diary?

Note: Check for anyone following if I return to you know where.

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