So it happens that I'm doing what I thought I never would: writing a book. Nothing more, nothing less. Writing a book instead of risking my life out there, fighting against creatures and people that outpower me. Sipping some hot coffee when I could be drinking water from a random river. Oh, plenty of things I could be doing right now... Things I would love to do, but sadly, I cannot. That's what a terminal disease does to you. I am weak, sick, and about to die all alone, on this very same island I was born. Vytal. Known for being the place where the leaders of Vale, Vacuo, Mistral and Mantle signed the peace treaty to put an end to the Great War. Oh, that one tournament where Huntsmen wannabes fight with each other was named after the island, too. Other than that? It's a sparsely populated place full of Grimm. You don't want to move here unless you're a daredevil and like small, technologically backwards villages.
Anyways, where was I... Oh, yeah. Complaining about my current situation. You can't blame me, to be honest. But, as much as I hate it, things always come to an end. That's what I believe. Nothing, nobody is an exception to that rule. Not even that wicked woman. One day, I am sure she will fall. Someone has to tie up that loose end, right? She's not the kind of person you want to have around. I mean, only madmen like me enjoy that. Not exactly her company, but the adrenaline fighting against her gives. Other than that, she can rot in hell.
I've just re-read these two last paragraphs, and realized I didn't even introduce myself. That's quite a big fault on my side! Whoever's reading this will just assume I'm a lion faunus, judging by the title alone. And no, I am not. I'm a human. Not the most humane among humans, but surely the most human. My name is Iran Kalmatar, but those who don't know my name tend to call me by my title, "the Blue Lion". Hence the name of this book. You understand that now? You do? Great. Right now, I am 37 years old. And, if the gods allow it, I'll turn 38 next month. It won't be my best birthday, to be honest: lying on a bed, with pain all over my body, and writing this book like an idiot until I draw my last breath. Definitely not my style, but it's not for me to choose.
I'm a bit divided on what to write in the following entries. Should I write about my past life, the events that brought me to where I am now? Or should I just put in words how miserable my everyday life is at the moment? Hm... I mean, at least to me, reading or listening to people complaining and being negative is boring and sometimes annoying. Which is ironic, because that's what I've been doing until now. My apologies, reader. I'll cut that from now on.
Back to the point: I'll just write about my past. Bringing back memories of what my life was and summing them up on a book will make me realize whether I had a life worth remembering or not. I damn hope so, because that's what I've been trying to achieve since the death of Ayakut Lazvard. That poor fool who couldn't see what was coming for him. That was, sadly, his downfall. And even if I outlived him, I'll admit that I truly envy him. He got to die as a hero, leading a normal life. A truly admirable man, if you ask me, even if he had his faults. Some days I miss him, others I do not. Nowadays, in contrast to what I used to think just a year ago, it's mostly the former.
...by the gods. Who would've said writing was so tiring? Maybe it's just me. I feel sleepy and fatigued. I need to rest a bit... I'll just close this entry and open the next one once I feel like doing it. I wonder if I'll ever finish writing this.