Day 2

Dear diary...
 
Just my luck, I'm writing you today from the comforts of the woods. Our party has tentatively befriended a creature named 'Null', and presently, his hut is our only shelter. We've been ousted from the Limping Braggart after an... unfortunate incident involving that horrid librarian. Well, not a librarian. He turned out to be a rather powerful wizard. I may have provoked him a touch over the course of the day, but gods, could you blame me? The book he gave me has sent me into a tailspin. Anyhow, when we were sent away from the inn and he greeted us outside, he viciously attacked us with a chain lightning spell. Luckily, I expertly counterspelled it and none of my compatriates were hurt.
 
When he was eventually bested, his body seemed to spark and fizzle and nothing but his robes were left. Though this did save us the hassle of cleaning up a corpse, I fear that he may not be truly gone, and now that we have angered him, this does not spell good news for our endevours.
 
Speaking of which, what ARE my endevours, diary? I'm dreadfully confused. I came here to win over the Partri higher ups to a more favourable position, and so far, besides befriending a military officer who seems to hold little decision making power, I haven't much accomplished it. Now I'm practically homeless, sitting in the woods with other vagabonds and a creature made of porcelain. And his cat. (note: I DO NOT TRUST the cat.) In summation, I appear to be a piss poor diplomat. Maybe it would be easier if I knew what I needed to defend. My parents and their advisors gave me so little to work with, I scarcely know why we are engaged in conflict with Partri in the first place. At least for now it seems to be kept in the arena of economics and trade, rather than actual bloodshed. I hope.
 
I don't know how I'm going to explain myself to my mother. What a catostrophic failure this has been, diary. I've made no progress, few allies, and a lot of trouble for myself. Oh, and to top it off, I can only look like a presentable Valmine noble for an hour at a time before my magic resets and I sprout horns.
 
The worst part of all of this, though, is the magic. The fighting. When we defeated Safiko, I'm afraid... I'm afraid I enjoyed it. It felt good, to fight. To set things ablaze with the flick of a finger, to toss bolts of fire at an enemy. I felt powerful, confident, competent, as if I were in my natural element. It sickens me to write that, but it's true. Everytime I use the magic, my chest warms and my shoulders broaden and relax, almost like being wrapped in a blanket that had been hanging by the mantle for an hour or so. My fingertips glow and come alive, my vision is clear, my feet planted steady on the earth. The roar of the pyre in the pam of my hand sounds like the rush of blood through my veins. By the gods, diary, it's euphoric. But it's wrong. This power has it's roots in pain and sifferring and damnation, I am sure of it. What other kind of power could be bestowed upon an abomination like myself? I must learn restraint, to control this consuming elation that ignites when I cast.
 
I must be going, now. This hut requires much tending, and we should eat and rest before whatever awaits us at dawn.
 
Goodnight, diary.
 
-Mithiope