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January 1840

Journal I

by Valdar Vindlersson

Tomorrow I leave.
I leave everything I know behind me. My family, my few friends, all my possessions and my bed by the hearth.
 
I am about to strike out into the wilderness on my own decision. No one is forcing me, not even the sword. It is my choice and no one else knows what I am about to do. I have never fitted in here anyway, this miserable town of Boyn. Full of old rich men, desperately holding on to their traditional values. Would have treated me like utter scum if it weren't for my family name, just because I was different. Anyway, this family was never going to offer me anything else apart from safety against a lynching. I'm the third son and a cursed infernal child, if I were to inherit anything it would be a handful of silver. A third son is meant to go into the church, you think the clergy would accept demonspawn? In this country?
 
It all started a year ago. My transformation into who I am now. I was searching through the land outside of town before I stumbled across a cairn secluded in overgrown ferns. On the side was a slab of stone reading "Here lies Son of Vindler, origin of the Vindlersson Dynasty" and lodged in the top was a crusted ancient greatsword. As I took the weapon out, the dust slowly wiped away and I could feel something in my head. This was the start of the whispers.
 
Over the course of the year, I spent my minuscule fortune at the smithy bringing the sword back into its prime and.. it thanked me. It started in just my dreams, where I would find myself having visions of fighting techniques that I would learn the next day. Then, single words would whisper into these dreams. Now, the sword will sometimes even whisper short sentences directly into my head. The sword has helped me so much this past year and I trust it more than anyone. It has even shown me that I do not belong here.
 
I have purpose. To find justice. To travel westward.
But first, I need money. I need to get to Berzine.
 
I am writing to keep my sanity in the coming days. I do not know how long I will be away for, nor where I will be and what I will encounter. I hope that one day when my purpose is fulfilled someone will read these back. Will understand what I had to do. What I had to do to them.

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  1. Journal I
    January 1840