Night. Wet, dark, and unpleasant. I write this before retiring, again, with a headache. Today was most unpleasant, and nearly cost the life of another friend, but had great rewards of wealth, or potential wealth as well. Let it be noted though, that my head is splitting, and it is dark, and I am wet and hard-pressed to keep my book dry in this rain, so I will be brief.

The Year of the Maidens it is. And I find myself beset by maidens—if it is not too presumptuous to call them that—of a most mystical nature. Every manner of magic imaginable is drawn up in the young maids that now surround me—perhaps excepting the ancient art of Runes. Power of the mind. Powers to infuse the body with raw magical energy. Powers to call and command genie-kind. And a student of THE FUCKING SIMBUL!

Oh fuck, I wrote that. May it please Mystra, do not let your servants, who know always when their names are spoken, know when their names are written as well.

If my route to fame as a master of sorceries is to be, it makes sense that in this, the Year of the Maidens, that, by virtue of great Alaundo the Prophet, who recorded the words of Auguthra the Mad, that these maidens, each possessed of unique arcane gifts would come to me. As if I, personally, were being visited by the grace of our lady Mystra and the prophecies of her servants. Could it be, that these ARE the maidens the mad prophet spoke of?! That their collective presence, by Tymora’s fortuitousness, was fortold, and that I was meant, nay DESTINED, to collect the lore of their gifts and assemble them into a cohesive thaumaturgical whole?

Green-eyed lady, lovely lady
Strolling slowly towards the sun
Green-eyed lady, ocean lady
Soothing every raging wave that comes

Green-eyed lady, passion’s lady
Dressed in love, she lives for life to be
Green-eyed lady feels life, I never see
Setting suns and lonely lovers free

Green-eyed lady, wind-swept lady
Rules the night, the waves, the sand
Green-eyed lady, ocean lady
Child of nature, friend of man

Apologies. I am suddenly struck with the words of a song or three.
Pardon my meager sketches of my companions. I am no artist.

Where are our lives?
If there is no dream, where is our home?
We don’t know how there will be a way
Out of the storm we will find home

And her soul walks beside her
An army stands behind her
Lyra, Lyra

And her face full of grace
Two worlds collide around her
The truth lies deep inside her
Lyra, Lyra

And the stars look down upon her
As darkness settles on her
Lyra, Lyra

Who’s to know what’s in the future
But we hope, we will be with her
We have all our love to give her
Oh, Lyra, Lyra

GAH this headache, I can barely see to write, and my hair is dripping on the page, and I am underneath a wagon, and someone is screaming, and I want to go to sleep, and I’m tempted to just cast a spell on myself. To bed with me, if I can.