Entry

Dear diary, today I had a conversation with Major Twirled-Mustache, she’s a crazy woman, her parents both died in the Iron Wars, on seperate fronts. I don’t pity her, I can’t. She wants to see if I can access any of my powers. I tell her I don’t have powers and she tries to manually jog my memory. Odd how soldiers behave, there’s this image of precision I usually expect, from people who march in square ranks and files and can spin on their heels at the drop of a hat, and yet in real life they are sloppy, like cups of water on a table you knock while passing. Always screaming too loudly, hitting too loudly, living too loudly. She reminds me of my debt to humanity and I keep my face extra blank as I nod my head, I don’t owe human beings, I owe the Shore, this sprawling beachside village where we are packed and abandoned, I owe it to fae children that are found and dragged all the way here, people remember the lightning faes as terrible monsters, atomic bombs, so it soothes their porcupine minds and dreams to see the last lightning fae, in all his green skinned weakness, debase himself before them. I am weak and humanity is superior. The fae didn’t conquer them, no it’s the druids, traitors to their own species, what could a bunch of green skinned, flower sniffing aliens have over Humanity, wooden spears compared to skyscrapers. I think Shakespeare could have worked with this.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Major. T.M. is the sort of person to step on insects, written down like this she might sound different, set apart from others She's not really, Humans seem to have an aversion to small things, unless they look like them, too many possibilities I guess.

I want a tattoo.