Yesterday, my father issued this journal to me. His orders:

"Write what you feel in it, kid."

I did so, presenting him the entry earlier this morning. He frowned.

"I should've known."

My father stated this matter-of-factly. He scratched his blonde hair vigorously, as is his habit when frustrated. He has been doing so more frequently as of late, perhaps because we have moved the free company to the vicinity of Remire Village. At the current moment, it is difficult to keep the current group of non-commissioned officers from leading raiding parties. In particular, we have experienced eight desertions, presumably to a nearby bandit group engaged in a Chevauchee of the countryside.

Many are politically agitated because we have crossed into a territory they consider foreign. Several approached me recently as the chief adjutant with their concerns. I simply told them that I am apolitical and referred them to Jeralt, my father. I do not know if he has made a statement yet. My suggestion is that as the captain-major of the company, he certainly should. If I was captain, I would consult each of the sergeants in confidence and attempt to assuage their concerns.