Today I continued to work on repairing the undead I’ve been working on. I am making progress rather quickly.

I stumbled upon Mest’s grave today, I didn’t even know it exists. For some reason people don’t tell me these things, it is actually kind of frustrating.

I talked to him like I used to. I told him all about what it was like to be a dungeon, I’m sure he would have loved that. I told him about my progress in flesh manipulation, something he knew I was constantly trying to learn. I remember bouncing Ideas off of him on potential ways to actually learn, but it always came back to one thing; necromancy. I told him about how Azrezel has been helping me in exactly the same ways Mest and I had discussed before.

I cried when I realized that we would never really talk again. I’ll never be able to bounce ideas off on him or brag about my recent accomplishments or just vent to him while he listens. I mean, I will be able to do those things, but it won’t be the same, he won’t really be here.

I know that his soul has reincarnated somewhere in this world, and that if I really wanted to I might be able to find him. But it wouldn’t be him. He was a great mage and an even greater scholar, he will almost definitely keep some of his memories. But he won’t remember me. He was a large part of the beginning of my life, while I was a small part of the end of his.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

He was one of the best teachers I ever had, and he will be remembered for that.

There a mural on the gravestone, Tiddol painted it. It was of Mest and Thes sitting together in a moment of peace, having an animated discussion. About what, I have no idea, but they were both very invest in the conversation. On Mest you can see all the details on his grayish purple skin, all the scars, freckles, burns, and marks. You can see the way he liked to push his hair behind his horns. You can see all the little magical trinkets he liked to carry around in all of the pockets on his old worn out clothes. On Thes you can see, in no less detail, all of his battle scars. You can see the way his fur tended to curl at the tips and how he sometimes fumbled around his words. His axe was at his side, which it never strayed from. You can see the cracks and the chips in it from where it has struck something just a little too hard.

In the background you can see the inside of a small house, it is blurry and indistinct but feels familiar, despite the fact that I know I’ve never been there.

Anyway, Good Night Diary.