Her stern voice like purple trumpets blooms every night, wanting for me to wake up. I salute, Lady Scarlet, I salute like the curtains of blue. The curtains, they don’t like me. They spit and wet and call me names, the curtains. The Lady, however, is good, The Lady is tall, The Lady is good, The Lady is not blue.

The fingers on the sky, always accusing, also act like the curtains. Why? I never did anything to them, to the water birds that carry them. The visits that came last time disregarded them, and just spoke to The Lady about the lavender scented beast in the nearby dungeon. The Lady is good: she defenestrated the guests kindly. The Lady is firm: they didn’t come back.

I write, I write to her glory, I write so other people may admire her tortuous, rough aura that fills me and my ilk with serenity. Because the others are there, under the same fingers, commanded by the same voice.

The mirrors of sapphire, always reflecting my name, also keep us company. Insanity+1, they call for me, Insanity +1, they cheer. How I hold them dear! And the deer, oh, the deer don’t come here anymore. The last one I saw slept peacefully, a fawn, in the arms of Lady Scarlet. Through halls scented with wet dirt, they don’t follow, for they fear. I think The Sentinel scared them away, the poor deer. The fawn’s still a fawn by our Lady’s will, for her holy breath abolishes time and keeps us lets us makes us prosper.

The abolished angels won’t come to dine tonight, for the feast of ancient sinew and fresh wine. We will devour one place and thousand, tearing away the flesh from the bone, drinking from cups taken from the vile lizard of shining eyes and scales of gold.

And they spoke of a dragon, yes, they spoke before going downstairs, to the brewery. The brewery to which I shall tend in a while, with all its barrels with heavy lids, its dense murk, the moaning wines inside and beyond. I don’t know how big is the brewery, I never reached the walls of it, I just know that it extends above us, that sometimes we can see a drop of wine falling from the hands that hold the sky.

I will go, and check on the barrels, that they are sealed tight, and call for the Lady if they are not. Because I must, because that’s why the Lady lets me serve her highness. The curtains will shine bright if I don’t, they will blow me off my feet and drop me on the harsh, slippery floor. As long as my diary is spared, though, I don’t care. They should know, they should praise her as we do here.

But before going there, I need to make way for the Sentinel, up the palace halls. Past the paintings, he resides in the blacksmiths workshop, where it smells like the iron of the swords and the rust of those who wield them. The sentinel is kind to me, he doesn’t kick me in the ribs like he does his children. He knows we both serve the same good Mistress, even if he never talks, he only ever grunts and gestures for me to go away. But oh, how good are the blades he guards! my favorite one, of a handle ornamented with golden patterns that resemble the green flames of the ground. It belonged to a dragon slayer in years long past, and Lady Scarlet bequeathed it to me in appreciation for my services. The sentinel lets me check on the blade every day and night, to make sure it is still there, in the coppery workshop, safely kept.

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Joy, joy is what I feel when I serve The Lady. Joy and this fulfilling uneasiness. It grows closer when I am in this, the main chamber, writing, as she watches over my shoulder. She likes me recording my life here, she has told me several times. “Amusing,” she says. “Lovely,” she says. It fills me with tepid, slick mirth that I never knew in my days before stumbling upon her.

I hear steps splash on the hall puddles, the dogs have arisen. I may need to pacify them, play a bit with the pooches. The Lady loves her dogs as much as she loves any loyal servant. As for me, I have always licked dogs. I am not in charge of feeding these ones, but, despite their stench that doesn’t go away with a simple bath, they are magnificent animals. They don’t get ticks; they don’t carry fleas. Pretty clean animals, even if not pretty smelling.

I am getting thirsty, I will sate myself with the brewery wines, with care to not touch the special reserve nor those that still lack maturation. They taste sweet, sweeter than any of the reds I have ever tasted, but leave a characteristic sour and metallic aftertaste. The main ingredients come from the Lady’s grape fields, and her harvests yield a variety seldom seen outside of her palace.

But I must finish this entry, and with it, I may invite anyone who finds this diary to come and visit the Scarlet Lady. Despite all of her servants, she feels lonely, and wails at night. The magic mirrors reflect her graceful and deft movements, her might, her mental acuity, her wisdom. I shall keep her company until she retires to her chambers at morning, for our Lady is a night owl. Not literally, of course: she is, pretty much, and much pretty, a woman.

And after the tasks are done and my needs tended to, I, too, would need to go to my room. But I prefer to postpone the matter for as long as it is possible without loitering around the palace. Before me, there was a man, a hero, that gone mad and slept there. He inscribed all the walls with horrible messages, carved directly on the walls with a rock or another hard implement. “Go kill the dragon.” He wrote once, “Wake up and slay the dragon.” Can be read other two times along the otherwise pristine chamber, “Murder the dragon!” he carved on the very floor with harshly done letters. Poor man, the lavender beast must have got the best of him. Luckily, the heroes who come and ask for the Lady’s blessing seem very willing to complete the task, even if it seems the dragon always comes back.

Despite this, The Lady holds a big deal of respect for the gold hoarding creatures, which is why she refuses to fix my room. “A reminder,” she says, “Of what dragons do to the unprepared mind. Obsession, my esteemed pawn, drives men to dragon lairs, and look how the meek of spirit and brow end up.”

And she is right, she is always right, I will never be one of the morons that face dragons: the lizards don’t inhabit the palace, and if they dared enter, The Lady and servants more fit for battle than I would repel them. I am just keeping the house and documenting our lives, after all, and I am content with that.