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Fri 8th Jul 2022 11:19

March 25, 1492

by Quierccirq

We arrived at the gates of Candlekeep, where a small welcoming party of monks greeted us. Unbeknownst to me, it is required that one donates a book to the archives in order to gain entry. The only book I’m carrying is this journal.
 
As the monks waited expectantly for me to hand it over, I realized, perhaps for the first time, just how desperately I have clung to my journals. I’ve kept one since Karak. Since Damaia. Since the voices began. I have confided everything of myself in these pages, across so many volumes. And now, there is a good chance I’ve lost the history of nearly half my life to the pits of Hell. Just as I had nearly resigned myself to the loss of this last mooring tethering the sinking raft of my sanity, I felt a new weight laid over my hands.
 
I looked down and saw a sketchbook. Umber’s sketchbook. He insisted it was alright. That he could recreate his art, but whatever I put into this journal was irreplaceable. I didn’t know how to thank him. I don’t think I ever could. My fear has blinded me to so much. It’s time I questioned it earnestly.
 
Candlekeep holds the answers to so much more than what we came here to learn. I will not waste this opportunity.