Sigil: City of Doors

A slightly tipsy Half-Elf sets about writing in an exquisitely bound green leather diary

Mother says writing things down helps keep them clear. Mother says it is only right for a respectable young man of society like myself to keep notes and diaries just in case memoirs are ever required. And one must always please mother, or else! Bugger

He both writes and mutters the last word before picking up the book and incinerating it in his hands with a fevered look in his eye, running to the bazaar and returning with one identical, which he begins in a more positive tone, writing this time in Elven

I have taken it upon myself to record my current thoughts, such as they are. They are as follows.

Drinking is good.

Setting damned filthy lying cheaters and knaves on fire is as much fun as mother implied. Things can easily get out of hand.

I am special and unique.

Goblins can be pleasant.

Taking syllables out of names is more conventional than adding them in.

I'm trapped I'm trapped Gods please help me I'm trapped

He peers a little curiously at the last line then the piece in general before sighing, shaking hands quickly reducing the second book to dust. He takes a sneaky swig from a bottle residing in a secret drawer of the desk he writes at, thoughtfully examining the drawer as his extended swig comes to consist of a full half of the bottle. He eventually drinks his fill, coughing and blinking tears from his eyes as he stoppers the bottle, placing it on the floor by his foot. Pen in hand, he scratches bitterly at the surface of the drawer's bottom

I am Vol.

He pauses before adding another word in small, shaky letters

I am Miliarin Vol.

After another brief pause, he scrawls a short phrase

Mother be damned.

He drops the pen and shuts the drawer abruptly, giggling at his small act of rebellion and shaking so violently he is forced to go to bed, the bottle firmly returned to his hand

Vol, shaking like a leaf, transfers the Anarchist posters and newspaper clippings he has collected from his bag to the top of his home desk. The clippings are mostly instances of direct reporting of Anarchist propaganda or letters and missives from the Anarchists themselves, making demands or claiming responsibility for attacks.

Strengthening his reserve with a combination of spirits and fear-banishing potions, he commits a few straight hours to committing both the messages and the wording of the Anarchist messages to mind, taking occasional breaks to draft feverishly on loose sheets of paper which he immediately burns.

He eventually sweeps the pile of papers and depleted vials into his hidden drawer, laughing harshly and rapidly as the potions he swallowed lose their grip. Laughing triumphantly and almost hysterically, he withdraws a new book, identical to the unfortunate last two, into which he begins rapidly scrawling notes and ideas

The Thayan mind-thief is an enemy.

Anarchists like bombs. Nobody says what Anarchists sound like. Anarchists leave their voice all around.

Don't talk to the Harmonium.

There is always a plan

He writes over the characters of the last point again and again, pushing hard enough to break the nib of his pen, at which point, hand and book covered in ink, he regains enough control to throw the book and remains of his pen in the drawer and close it tight. He remains in his seat a long while, panting and grinning stupidly, before slapping himself once and leaving the house quickly, quietly so as not to get mother's attention.

Vol sat back in his seat, rocking in silent laughter as one hand instinctively runs over his scarred left arm, which aches dully in return.

Everything is going so well. The kindly wizard had taught him to print, at only the cost of a hat - he had even acquired a new hat, one soothing and driving his mind to new levels of intricacy and plot even through its near constant haze of instinctual, manic fear.

He even had a temporary cure for that haze, one more elegant and efficient than the potions; a wand, one kept hidden in the very deepest recesses of his magic bag - a wand which, unfortunately, he could not, as such, use.

He trembles with a mix of terror and self-loathing as this fact idles through his mind. In an instant his notebook is found and opened, words burning directly onto it as the half-elf waves his hand over it

Not goodenoughwon't be free w on't succeedor be free or safe or happyor awayawaya-

The single page crinkles and burns, the act seeming to drain some of the tension from Vol, bolder words appearing on the next page

I am M- Vol. Follow the plan. Find a bard. Be harmless. Wait. Waitwaitwait.

He blinks and nods, reading over the advice from himself and giggling softly. He goes to bed hopeful and motivated, his nightmares seeming just a little less acute that night.