Below are the 3 most recent journal entries recorded in Faerin's LiveJournal:

Tuesday, April 8th, 2003
12:33 pm	Godsforsaken Location of the Wooded Variety So here I am again, out of town and back in the woods. Forest of Deical, actually, as if it made a difference. It's not raining currently, thank the gods. Instead it's cold and misty and dreary, and I am reminded entirely on why it is that I had elected to stay indoors for most of my youth. As this outlet is denied to me, I have no choice but to muddle through it. At times like these, I think that if I ever do find my father, I will kill him slowly in some process which involves spikes under the nails and wet clothing and boiled sheep. Admittingly, I would never be able to return to Erlean then, but all in all, I may be getting the better bargain with the hours/days/weeks worth of pleasure out of killing the instigator of all of this than I would be with however long I decide to spend back home. Away from that particular sadistic mode of thought, like I said, it's cold and wet. No new traces of Seregon, either, so I'm moving back towards the Capital to see if there are any leads there. If I can't turn anything up, I'll meet Eric at Beltaire - he said he'd be there long enough. Mind, there's nothing in Beltaire but whores and theives. Probably explains why he wants to meet up there. Actually, there's a good chance that my godsforsaken father will show up there, come to think of it. Bloody hell, it's cold. I haven't got any flint either; like the fool I am, I neglected to purchase more and had the bit I keep for emergencies stolen by a cut purse two days ago. And to think I said "it's spring, I don't need any flint right now! I'm fine!" when I had opportunity to get more. Figures, really. Fate hates me in a specialized sort of way. She only waits for me to screw up myself and then escalates the misery of what should be a minor event into something which is nigh unbearable. Or, at the very least, just fucking cold. I hate being cold. And I do this every spring too. Shows a lot for the supposed 'elven wisdom' doesn't it, then? Fucking legends. They never talk about when someone screws up and gets frozen, no, it's all "And he nobly drew his bow and laid arrow to the string, drawing back and releasing in one even motion, his dark green fluttering with the movement" and shite like that. Ha! Reality is much different. Reality is stained clothes and old boots and being fucking cold all the fucking time and remarkably little else. Well. Whores, I suppose, if you believe Men. I generally make a habit not to, which does me well. Current Mood: cold (Comment on this)
Monday, April 7th, 2003
8:53 am	In the Weeping Penguin, Upstairs It's raining. It's a sort of drizzling rain, the kind which soaks you without you being aware of it; a slow and bitter sort, which, as soon as you escape out of it, leaves you frozen and desperately seeking a fire. I've not a fire. The bloody hospiss didn't come with a place for one, thinking that we're all louts who like to Converse With Each Other (And Buy Several Pints In The Process) and that we all want to converge in the drinking room. Screw that, is my thought. I'll take my cold room and be in peace. Eric was all about meeting up here, said that it was a fantastic place and that their mutton was the "best you can get west of the Merdac." I suppose if I enjoyed boiled sheep, I'd agree. As it was, I needed somewhere to sleep and he knows the owner. Cheaper than the alternative, which is this out of the way hovel called Misty Morgan's Mounds. All in all, I am most pleased to pass it. I do wonder what it is about inns and bars, in that they've all the same sort of name. The double entenders of most of them are so blatant that it's painful; Eric's already passed out, and I doubt he'll wake before I move on, but he wants to meet next at someplace in Beltaire called the "Weeping Penguin". Where the penguin came in, I've not a clue and don't particularly want one. He last declared his favorite place in the world to be the "Rampaging Weevil" and before that it was the "Manly Megolith" back in Tauren. I went through the city of the Human Sorcerors before it was destroyed, and the inns there waged a finacial war with the names "Thrusting Tower" and "Silken Staff". Bunch of shirt lifters. Food's here. They better have remembered about the boiled sheep, or I'll be fucking pissed. Current Mood: cold (Comment on this)
Sunday, April 6th, 2003
7:24 pm	Wooded Area I So. I spoke to Eric, the bloody bastard, and he gives me this. "A treat!" he says, "A present!" he says. "You're a bastard," I said. "You just forgot my birthday again." Which just means that he was drunk - as usual - and it was a good way to mess with his head. It's hard for him to forget my birthday, given that I don't have one but when drunk, Eric is remarkably stupid. This is especially true as he's a sad drunk who will fall over weeping if you get him started. This is often done by telling him that he forgot something, at which point he'll moan and weep and buy drinks for everyone. The first two steps of this occurred as planned, and he was in the middle of the third when he fell flat on his face and knocked himself out on the way. Stupid Man. So no free drinks, damn it all, but he gave me this so I suppose it's something. He was so drunk that he couldn't even remember why the next day. At least he's generous with the getting the rounds. Which is a plus in his favor. When you've looked thirteen for the past hundred and forty years, being able get someone to get you a drink can be a good thing. Even if it is a human bastard, I suppose. They've got their good points. But he gave me this, and what I am to do with it, I haven't a clue. So I'm blabbering. Writing swill. Gods, if Celonius could read the shit I'm pouring down here, I think the poetry loving maniac would have a heart failure. Or possibly break into a rash and need a good decade long lie down, but Celo always did take things overboard. Pansy. Eh. Screw this. I do something with it later. Current Mood: groggy (Comment on this)