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Dragonwilds:Alric's Journal: Difference between revisions

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journal found, location shared, transcribed
 
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[[File:Alric's Journal Location.png|thumb]]
[[File:Alric's Journal Location.png|thumb]]
This Journal is found next to [[Dragonwilds:Valerius]] in one of the out towers of the [[Dragonwilds:Library]] on one of the tables.
This Journal is found next to [[Dragonwilds:Valerius]] in one of the out towers of the [[Dragonwilds:Library]] on one of the tables.
{{Journal entry|Is it regret or hubris that banishes my dreams each night? I cannot remember the last time I dreamed a dream of my own, and not that of… the other.
{{DW/Journal entry|Is it regret or hubris that banishes my dreams each night? I cannot remember the last time I dreamed a dream of my own, and not that of… the other.


Perhaps it is the foolishness of an old man, clinging to the sharpness of his youth. The passage of time curses me with a dullness that is not my own. My flesh feels alien to me, as if I am a skin worn by something else. My insides writhe and burn like snakes of fire. Even touch feels strange to me, as if there were layers of strange cloth between me and the world.
Perhaps it is the foolishness of an old man, clinging to the sharpness of his youth. The passage of time curses me with a dullness that is not my own. My flesh feels alien to me, as if I am a skin worn by something else. My insides writhe and burn like snakes of fire. Even touch feels strange to me, as if there were layers of strange cloth between me and the world.

Latest revision as of 18:29, 9 April 2026

File:Alric's Journal Location.png

This Journal is found next to Dragonwilds:Valerius in one of the out towers of the Dragonwilds:Library on one of the tables.

The following text is transcribed from the Journal.
Is it regret or hubris that banishes my dreams each night? I cannot remember the last time I dreamed a dream of my own, and not that of… the other.

Perhaps it is the foolishness of an old man, clinging to the sharpness of his youth. The passage of time curses me with a dullness that is not my own. My flesh feels alien to me, as if I am a skin worn by something else. My insides writhe and burn like snakes of fire. Even touch feels strange to me, as if there were layers of strange cloth between me and the world.

Is this age? Foolishness? Or something worse?

Our demons have said nothing for some time. The voices tell me to ignore it, that I am overthinking things and just need to try to sleep. Yet the others whisper threats and curses from the corners of the room, the cracks in the ceiling, wishing me naught but harm.

I have made this place better, stronger, more powerful. It was by my hand that we brought the demons through. They should bow in adoration of my power, yet they laugh at me from behind the curtains and pretend they’re not really there.

All will come to respect me.

All will come to despise me.

The whispers are wrong: I am not mad.

The whispers are right.