April 17, 1601
They decided on a new owner for the inn. Brackard, a dark figure that has a nose like a raven's beak and sounds like one too. He has taken mother for himself and sent me out on the street because I was useless. An anti-witch mob had Grandma Reganne burned for killing Grandpa Attila, which is a lie. Now I am a beggar, sitting in a deserted filthy alley, a beggar, like half the population in this miserable city. I may as well die of starvation, beggars get no sympathy and I have no unique theft techniques in order to stay alive. I was not one of those boys who played with sticks and stones, fighting and wrestling to get respect and to show that I was the greatest, stealing from the bakery shops and gloating over my prizes.
Tomorrow I am going to find a way out of this city, it can't go on forever and I did manage to pick up a couple of bronze pieces while being kicked out the main door of the inn onto the street by a few of Brackard's friends. I had already spent one bronze coin for bread just to keep me alive these past few weeks. I have two more left. I already had my personal book and pen (and ink-well) in my front pocket. That is how I left; now I am a dying homeless beggar. These are the Dark Times. I have nothing to do but sleep, write, and walk around doing absolutely nothing. It would sound like fun if I had enough food with me, I can find water easily enough in the troughs scattered here and there. It is perpetually raining, the worst trouble I have had is trying to keep this book dry.
Tomorrow I will leave down the west road.