Dear Diary,

Well, it’s been quite a while since my last entry — ten years, to be precise. Oops!  I guess I just got sidetracked, or spent a whole lot of time procrastinating.  Not that a descendant of the fabled recappers would ever do such a thing, you understand.

The strange thing is, I don’t actually remember anything that happened during that time — it’s all a black blur.  Almost like I never experienced the entire decade at all!  Weird, huh?  Anyway, today was apparently my birthday, and as soon as I awoke in the…uh…”cozy” caravan the gypsies had been so kind to provide me, Theresa told me to come visit her on the wooden bridge overlooking the camp..  With my trusty pooch (who I’d affectionately nicknamed “Fucker”) at my side, I made my way through the camp and met with Theresa, who hadn’t changed her clothes in the ten years since we’d first met.  Those robes must have things living in them by now.

Me and my best buddy outside our new "home". I guess it’s a step up…

Theresa told me that the day had finally come for me to set out on my quest of vengeance.  She also advised me to check out the chest in front of my caravan, into which she’d deposited a few items that “might prove useful”. These so-called “useful items” turned out to be a rusty sword and crossbow, a placebo health potion (no, really, it actually had “placebo” written on it!!) and a spade.  Thanks, Theresa!  I may not be able to cut off Lucien’s head with the rusty sword, but I can probably infect him with tetanus instead!

The final gift Theresa had for me was a mysterious emblem she called the Guild Seal.  She said all the Heroes used to carry them, like that’s of any use to me.  Maybe they’re the heroic equivalent of a member’s card?  She also said something about being able to speak to me through it.  Oh hell no, I felt like telling her.  Sure, I don’t mind you getting in touch to tell me how to solve a difficult puzzle or to tip me off about a hidden item somewhere, but I seriously DO NOT want your ancient voice chiming in to nag me about something when I’m at a critical moment with some hot young adventurer I met on the road. Still, it could be worse — I could have an annoying fairy flying around my head and pointing out the blindingly-obvious, for instance.  How irritating would that be?

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Dear Diary,

First, I apologize for that pretentious title – I heard it in a strange dream I had this morning. The woman who said it sounded exactly like Madam Hooch from the Harry Potter movies and the Lady Cassandra from Doctor Who.  Weird. She also asked me if I was male or female, which was even weirder since I’m 100%, undoubtedly male.  I mean, I’m still a boy, but I’m pretty sure there are no girl parts here.

Anyway, I thought the title was quite appropriate, given that this is my first ever diary entry and all. Oh, my dear diary, you simply would not believe how shitty today was.  Well, every day is pretty much a giant heap of shit for me, since I’m an orphan living on the streets, but today just took the cake.  Where to begin?  Hmm, I guess a fucking bird SHITTING ON MY HEAD is a good place to start. Seriously — there I was, hanging out with my big sister in the downtrodden, snow-covered slum we call home, when a robin suddenly decided my forehead was the perfect place to empty its bowels.  As I regurgitated the crust of moldy bread I’d eaten for breakfast, Rose tried to tell me that having a bird crap on you is a sign of luck, like finding a four-leaf clover.  Somehow I doubt she’d be saying that if she’d been on the receiving end of the aforementioned piece of crap.  And, hard as it is to believe, the day only got worse from there.

The “great” city of Bowerstone.

While I tried to scrape the worst of the bird muck out of my hair, Rose stared at the majestic Castle Fairfax in the distance and started to talk longingly about what it would be like to live there, as she always did when we were cold and hungry.  That is to say, all the fucking time.  She tried to tell me all about the castle’s owner, Lord Lucien, and how lonely he must be since his wife and kid died.  Like I care about any of that, I wanted to say.  He’s not the one out here freezing his balls off while scrabbling around in the dirt for food, begging for gold and fending off drunken tramps.  I’m sure he’ll understand if I don’t send him a freaking sympathy card.

Now, Rose and I have had to grow up more quickly than most — living in poverty kind of does that to you.  This is the only life I can remember, and our parents died so long ago that I can’t even remember them (not that they were anyone important anyway).  The reason I’m telling you all this is so you understand why the two of us were so eager to listen to the weird old guy who claimed to be peddling “magical” items from his run-down trader’s caravan in the square.  Actually, Rose told me he was bullshitting us at first, but I knew she secretly wanted to believe, too — after all, magic has been gone from Albion for hundreds of years.  Our curiosity only increased when a mysterious old lady in a hooded robe appeared out of nowhere and declared “We live in grim times indeed if the young are too world-weary to believe in magic”.  Strangely, her voice was the one I’d heard in my dream, but I dismissed it as a coincidence.  My first mistake of the day.

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