My Diary - Lewis Litmil

Eighth Era - In the city of opportunity, Croiden

Croiden will never be a perfect example of society. I was never under the impression that it was, but it could at least try to hide it. I have family in Oras for example. At least their children can run in the streets without being held at the end of some weapon for a few minutes. I guess it's all my fault for living in low tier though. I needed to conserve the money to save up for my journal business. I guess that dream seems a long ways away, But at least now I can start reaching towards it. Then I can finally earn a living enough to live with my children again. One day, me. One Day....

I flipped the page, interested as to what would come next in the story. I could feel my small fingers slide unevenly down the fore-edge of the book as my attention focuses on the text, and subconsciously I registered the dark red stains that littered the last half of the novel. This book was so fascinating. The worn leather cover felt softer than the scrap that I was used to sleeping on, and it was a wonderful surprise that there was such entertaining stuff scribbled inside of it! The small patterns of almost frantic writing throughout the book were intriguing, but most of them were boring, so I skipped most of them. They talked about everything, from work, to something called a city, and even about the stars above. It referenced something called legends, and another thing called songs.

But the material that interested me the most was the action that appeared in the book. It was always easy to tell where the action happened, because there was always a lot of the sticky crimson color on those pages. The pages stuck together, so I had to pry them apart carefully, but they always told the most rewarding stories.

Eighth Era - Inside Safehaven

I had another run-in with Ian today. I'm so, so tired of low tier. I don't think that I can handle doing this much longer. What would Sarah think, seeing me like this? Covered in blood and bandages, drowning in debt, and resorting to anything just to find my next meal? I was foolish to ever think that I could survive in this harsh environment. "Go live in the low tier!" They said. "Its where you make big money and live for cheap." Why did I ever believe them?

The child's eyes roamed the page excitedly, uncovering more and more of the story. It trailed off after the last sentence he had read, almost like the writer had paused to think. The text continued farther down the page. The writing, usually written in solid, calm lines changed to erratic, fast markings that spread across the entirety of the page.

𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑓 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚... 𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑛, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛'𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠. 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒. 𝑀𝑦 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑤. 𝑀𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒'𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘, 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛dless pit that is the low tier. None of my stories will ever be seen, and my life will have been... worthless.

The writing resolved itself as it went on, the lines becoming more organized, and the tone calming down. As Lewis wrote more and more, like it was something he had to get out of his mind and onto the paper that he loved so much. After the harsh passage, he wrote a few things about his day that I skipped, and then he signed off faithfully, the same way that he had for the past sixteen years, according to the journal.

I don't know what a year is, but I could recognize the effort that it would take to write as much as he had read. I had tried copying the words on a page earlier, and I had failed miserably. I found myself looking down at the words that littered the bottom of the page and ran my hand along them, yet another time.

A journalist writes to pass on his story - Lewis Litmil

I couldn't understand much of what the journal said, but I did understand one thing.

This line was the most important thing I have ever seen in my short life.

The realization spread through me in a flurry of happy sparks that spread through my chest, and I felt compelled to stand and spread my arms to the torn up roof above me. I could understand him. This man that was shaping my life through his work. I was the living essence of his dream, and I could live with pride knowing that I carried it. I peeked up at the stars that shone through the cracks in the ceiling of the little shack, and enjoyed the feeling of the wind wafting through the broken walls, even the harsh sound that it made. I let out my first laugh, a sound full of innocence and joy.

As soon as it fell from my lips, the sounds of small impacts rang from outside the strange wall that I now turned to. A massive sound shook my bones, and part of the wall collapsed inwards and scattered across the room. After a few seconds of silence, a giant stepped through the broken shack, a pretty stick that reflected the prominent starlight in his hand.

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The child looked at the giant, curiosity bubbling up through my veins. I let out an incoherent babble, and the giant reacted harshly. The tall figure jumped backwards, and then it dashed forward with a speed that the child couldn't react to. The shiny stick came towards me at a raging speed, and I felt something touch my neck. But it felt... wrong. In the time that I had been alive, my neck wasn't supposed to feel wet. The child reached his fingers up to check, and calmly pulled them away as he saw a crimson, sticky fluid cover his palm. So that's what the stuff in the book was!

The child let out another joyful laugh as it discovered this, and focused on the giant once more, having forgot that it was there.

The giant had frozen, its shiny stick now held by its side, shaking erratically.

I almost moved closer, ever so curious about what the creature was, but I stopped as the giant did something. Its mouth moved, an organized sound, but it didn't make any sense nonetheless.

It's sound rang through the air, a frantic tone, bordering on hysterical. The child could hear patterns in the odd sounds, but he couldn't decipher any of them. They seemed to be coming from the giant, so the child stopped and listened, determined to find out what he could.

Unfortunately, the giant soon dashed out of the broken wall, vanishing into the night. Watching its figure though the hole in the wall, the child saw its shadowy form fade into the darkness.

6 Years Later

I step outside onto my small porch and look back at my house, a homey little shack that I've fixed up over the years. Its a small place, and keeping the bugs out of my journals is an eternal trial of mine, but a trial that I'm more than willing to undertake. I can feel a slight breeze tickling my cheek, and as I look at the sky I can feel my mouth turn down. The sky to the north was filled with dark clouds. Licking my finger to taste the wind, it looks like the storm could arrive sometime tonight or tomorrow. Not very convenient, but I could survive a little storm. I sigh and step onto the filth-ridden street, and start walking to my newest hit.

"It's gonna be another long day."

At least Ill be able to finish another journal when I get home.

I slip my thin hood over my head as I slowly walk my way through town, one foot in front of the other. I shouldn't need stealth today, because this "group" should be relatively new. As such, because I decided to waltz in the middle of the street, a few of the other residents of this crap-heap notice me. I can feel the whispers start stacking up, and I roll my eyes. I stopped paying attention to the whispers a long time ago, due to how boring the names were.

It has been a long time though.

Curious, I decide to start listening again. Surely, not all of the residents were brainless heaps of wasted flesh. Maybe a few had finally come up with a good name for me. Leaving my feet on autopilot, I keep my steady pace, placing my risen foot just in front of my other foot. As always, there was a few whispers of Demon, or The Haunted Child, or the most boring of the three, Cursed.

Like seriously, how unoriginal can you get. Demon?? Cursed?? That's the best that you could come up with?

As I'm starting to lose faith in my fellow human beings once more, I hear a child mutter something from behind someone I assumed was it's father. I turn my eyes to the kid, and he doesn't look like he could be older than I was. His eyes look glazed over, and he looks like he's been dressed in the same rags for years. His hair is greasy, and the skin around his hands and heck is covered in dried blood. A slave, then. Poor kid.

My constant stride stops, and I abruptly turn the rest of my body to face his direction. The people surrounding him all freeze as they see me staring in their direction, even though I was a good... fifty or so feet away from them. With a few quiet steps that ring in the small street, I start calmly walking over to the slave kid and the person who I now recognized as his slave driver.

The activity in the grimy streets slows to a stop as I grow closer to the slave. My eyes stay trained on his, and other people start to shuffle away from him. By the time that I find myself in front of the child, all but the slave driver had given us a wide berth. I open my mouth, and I ask the kid a question.

I wonder if he's been drugged? Poor guy.

His dull eyes look like they are trying to focus on me, his mouth starts to move, his body shakes for a few seconds, and he eventually gives up.

Well. I cant exactly leave without confirming what he had said, so I guess Ill just have to take him with me for now. I turn to the slave driver, a stick of a man. He was only a little taller than I was, and he was swaying back and forth slightly. By the look of it, he had silk clothes on, which was a stupid choice in a place as filthy as this. Maybe he was a fallen noble, or something.

My eyes narrow as I contemplate what angle I could leverage here. I open my sight fully to see what I could glean from him, and finally notice the mist that was surrounding me. A deep red mist, with a hint of black tinging the edges. Opening my mouth for a second, I taste the mist.

-Bloodlust- (Minor)

I quickly spit it back out, not wanting to taste bloodlust longer than I had to. But it does seem different than normal bloodlust. Weaker...Artificial even? I take a closer look at the slave driver, and I reconsider his dilated pupils and his hunched stance.

Is he drunk? Interesting.

Deciding to start with my signature blunt tone, I decide to see where this would go. "Good sir, I would like to negotiate the price of this slave. He interests me greatly."

The slave driver, to my pleasant surprise, seemed to calm down at this. No, that wasn't the right word. His muscles were still tensed, and his unfocused eyes were still locked on me, but now I had caught the attention of his greed. As if to confirm my guess, a golden mist started rising from the man's eyes.

-Greed- (Moderate)

Good, at least I had his attention.

I pull out a gold coin, and everyone watching almost jumps in surprise. A few of the more idiotic alley dwellers even try to rush me at the sight of it. After all, what kind of drug zombie wouldn't jump at enough money to get them stacked for the next few years. I glance at them, and put the gold coin away. Unconcerned at the people running at me, I turn my eyes back to silk-guy. The gold mist rapidly seeps out of his eyes, covering the ground around us, concealing the grime that covered the street.

Ironic, wealth yet again hides the filth of the world.

"Do we have a deal? I'm missing a welcoming party for a group that just arrived, and I need to go give them some tips."

After a few seconds of fumbling his words, he manages to agree. I flip the gold coin to him, throw the shaking child over my shoulder, and start slowly stepping away, once again. Behind me, a small fight breaks out over a worthless piece of metal. Screams echo out of the streets, and I sigh to the darkening sky again.

Just another day in low-tier.