Nawain/Logs/20240908

She sits at the edge of the cliff, gazing across the valley west of Crossings where three clans once stood. The spires rise from their craters, alien seeds planted by ominous gardeners, and her expression is grim as she considers each in turn. Her journal is open in her lap, the ink of her words drying in the cool pre-dawn air as her eyes lose focus and she examines that little piece of her soul that is inextricably tied to Sihmiauri. Was it closer? Was it stronger? Was it dying? No matter how many times the questions bubbled to the surface, she didn’t have the answers. 

“Day 121 of year 450, 127 days SN  “Dear Tev,”  

“I am surrounded by people, and as much as I hate it, it is good. I speak with them. I learn from them. Good people, who have made big mistakes, but kept going anyways. They tell me that we are made to do hard things. That forgiveness is a series of small steps. That the Pack is with me, that none of them will let me hide away and rot from the inside. That we’ll clean up our messes together.”  

“Some seem to think I have answers that I know I don’t. Clerics from the Western pantheons are traveling to Fang Cove to erase the All-God spell from their mind, and this too is good, and gives me hope that we can move away from antinomic sorcery to fuel our worship. One young man tried to pledge himself to my service. I shooed him away. I hope I was polite… It’s not that I didn’t want his help, I just need to prevent collateral damage. More collateral damage.”

“So many keep suggesting ways to use the godling as the tool I thought it was. Each time my soul thrills – oh, for my creation to be useful, to be appreciated, to be the solution history will remember. But it isn’t. It is a deception, a delusion, a trap. Worse, I don’t think I have any control over it at all. If I bring it close, if I feed it, I have no way to keep it from taking everything I am, forever.” 

“And then there’s those that speak to me, and I can’t close my mind to them without shutting everyone out. Whispers and temptations from those who’ve made mistakes they don’t regret, who offer numbness instead of salvation. Every small step I take seems like I’m marching against the tide, and the ocean will have none of it. I’m dragged back more often than I make progress, and I’m running out of energy, and time.”  

“One foot in front of the other. We are made for hard things. Progress is made up of small steps. I am not alone. I prepare my gift to myself.” 

“Let it be enough. Let us be enough.”  Long after dawn rises over the River Crossings and the ink is dry, she sits, and watches, and her eyes are dark.