[Entry 21]

Entry 21

 

I have arrived in town. Currently, I am seated in the first tavern I found along the road apparently referred to as The Bends. My host threw the gruel at my table with utter carelessness, clearly indifferent that the slop on the plate was not what I had requested. He was gone before I could protest. Lucky for him. I don't dare sip from the mug dumped before me either, likely it's literally pisswater.

 

Needless to say, my welcome here has not been warm. Nor are the actions of this insipid tavern an isolated case. Upon nearing the city proper I encountered Screaming Bay's first denizens. They are a dirty lot, in ragged and tattered clothes  evident with constant use. I don't expect they have more clothes than the very ones on their backs. They reek of the fish stench; likely fishermen. Their faces are pocked with oil and scars, at least, what I can make out from under the bristly forests of those manes.

 

Interestingly enough, their eyes are sharp. Their gait, while lumbering and swaggerous, was strong and consistant. There's muscle beneath their impoverished clothing. Salty men indeed.

 

They only glared at me during our passing, muttering nothing but their heavy, wheezing breath. I only stared back; I would not let mere folken stare me down! Our gazes butted against one another until we were both out of each other's eye-sight. At that point, I could tell that my time here could only proceed downhill.

 

Once actually within the burroughs I noticed dozen more eyes upon me. This time there was no silence. More murmuring could be heard from all the dim alleyways and from every individual in my wake. These people held none of the open wonder of those witnessing an alien, they either recognized me or hated outsiders that much. While I'm inclined to believe the latter, they must know a member of the Dahlian League when they see one. I am not the first here.

 

Either they are not aware of the capabilities of my rank or they simply don't care, but I amplified the sounds of their paltry mutterings to more audible levels for my ears. A handy trick an aeromancer taught me some time ago. What I heard answered all my questions.

 

'Another mage, here? They just don't learn.'

 

'Military dog....'

 

'Jorald, we should hurry home.'

 

'Accursed mages. Why won't they leave us alone.'

 

I don't feel like recording the profanities levied to my person here, so that is all I will say on the matter.

 

I must say, their disdain amuses me. Their reactions are typically characteristic of barbarians, more afraid of losing their way of life--not matter how dirty and poor that might be--than to welcome those that would seek to turn their pathetic little bay town and make it thriving. Establishing a base nearby always creates local industry, for even mages have needs. I'm sure many of the women here would find the company of League magi to be far better than the sullied rats currently using their services.

 

And yet, despite all the attitude thrown at me, no one dares touch me. That means that if nothing else, they know not to. They know what I'd do to them. That fact still makes me grin inside. As does the knowledge that by the end of this, I'll personally make sure that things here change as I see fit.

Author's Note

In the spirit of the journalistic style, I will leave most initial grammatical, syntactic, and other "first-draft" errors intact. Revisions will only occur if major changes are deemed necessary.