I Wound for Love
Entry #2
[Written on thin parchment, in writing that may be difficult to read by some. The pages themselves are neatly organized and appear to represent an obsessive nature about the writer.]
Krysinna walks with an odd grace. Her limbs are like the branches of a willow tree. She walks behind me, however, which implies that she may be ruled by her fears, doubts, and uncertainties.
Or she could be afraid of me. Am I so frightening, though? I may be tall. I may be strong. I may be wise. I am hardly different from her. We are both alive. We are both breathing. Our limbs move, the strands of our hair adjust with every motion, and our lips raise and lower as we speak. There is little, if anything, to fear in such a situation.
I took her to Fairbreeze and once more the mouth continued the speaking. I wish I could say that when she spoke I ignored her. I listen a lot more than I need to, and far more than I care to. On the other hand, in order to prevent her from growing curious about me, it's essential to keep her talking. This means it's required that I ask her questions and pretend to be interested.
Not once have I offered my real name. Well, not for quite some time, that is. To protect myself, to avoid the rest of the world, I have slyly disguised myself.
As you may have already discovered, my name is Soryk Valchion. Though it is not terribly original, I call myself Kyros. I imagine the surname Valchion is as common as Sunflame or something as equally ridiculous. We all ache for individuality, however, and therefore will pick new names for us and our children. It is nice to see such evolution with our new generation.
At any rate, that is the name I use. Surely you have put two and two together. "Kyros" is "Soryk" backwards. Is that not clever?
I'm kidding.
It's not special at all.
Rather than being called Kyros by Krysinna, she has decided that "Mister Kyros" is more appropriate. It makes me feel as though I am ancient. Now, I won't be telling you how old I am, but I'll have you know that I'm quite young. When I confronted her about this, she said it was because I refer to her as 'lady'.
No, I don't mean as in calling her "Lady Krysinna," but rather replacing her name with "lady". From what I can see, she does not appreciate it. It adds to my enjoyment. Well, offers me some, that is. Most of the time, I do not enjoy any time with her.
She is beginning to grow on me, perhaps.
No, never mind. That is the food poisoning.
Little Krysinna… She talks a lot. In fact, as we sat outside upon the chairs Fairbreeze was kind enough to offer, she made us a wonderful meal. (One that I will neglect telling her caused my innards to wretch, the way a sandworm would if it was forced to eat its own excrement.) While she may be obnoxious, she may be good for at least one thing, assuming any other can possibly live through what she believes is nutritional value. In spite of the food, however, it would not silence the shrew's tongue.
On and on she went until I forcefully rose to my feet. Bidding her a goodnight, I ignored her colored cheeks, and showed myself to the second floor of the inn. My dreams will surely be of that which she asked me before I left. I have no intentions of offering her information about me. I must avoid this at all costs.
Krysinna has asked that I accompany her through the woods tomorrow. How completely absurd.