Tattered Journal 2

From Atlantic Roleplay Wiki

Title: *tattered journal*

Author: Ziggy II

Fully knowing this may be my last chance to write this down, and considering I have nothing better to do chained to this workbench, I'm going to start at the beginning. It will be long winded so if you are the impatient sort feel free to jump to the end. I, Ziggy II, the namesake of my grandpa, leave this as a cautionary account of what has led me to ruin. First I would like to apologize to my niece [illegibly smudged], I'm sorry I haven't been there for you after your mom's parting. The suddenness of it landed upon me hard. Yes, I know it was hard for you and your pa as well. Your pa and I never saw eye to eye much, but we kept it civil for the sake of your mom and he was good to my dear sister so I didn't fuss so much.

After all that I took to the ale and, well, your pa buried his nose in running that tavern of his in Yew.

If this should reach you, tell him all is forgiven and no hard feelings. Also to ease up on your hours, you're still young yet. Go out and have an adventure or two and see the world. Lastly, my dear sister would have been proud to have seen her daughter turn out as well as you did. For the rest of this, where to begin? You could say it started with my pa, a skilled metallurgist and renowned clockmaker, or my mum, an exceptional seamstress.

Both skills I inherited.

But no, my passion was Automatons and golems. I was mesmerized the first time I saw one spring back to life after my pa helped a friend repair one. Even at that age barely big enough to carry a wrench like a squire with his knight's warhammer. The fixation throughout my life would bring me great prosperity and joy in my craft, but also ruin. Whether it be repairing heaps of junk brought back by the royal surveyor fresh off an expedition in Ilshenar or gilding some noble's estate sentry, I was satisfied in my work.

As I worked, friends, acquaintances, and loved ones came and went, but the joy from my craft stayed. I paid little heed to the fact that more were going or gone than entering my life and I worked. Childhood friends would pair off and start families, I worked. Acquaintances would go off on adventures, inviting me to join in, but would I go? No, I worked.

When they returned home to share drinks and tales of their exploits, would I be there to join in? No, I worked. When a love would walk out the door because I would be working in my workshop from noon til sun up and never made it home in between, would I follow after her to fix things? I would not, no, just go deeper into my craft. When I finally opened a letter that had been sitting in dust for nearly a week in my room, which I had not been to for twice as long, informing me of my sister's passing from an orc attack. The work had stopped.

By then I had more gray hair than not. Friends had gone. Most of my savings had dried up. The automaton shop was a shell of its former self, in no small part due to golemancy falling out of favor within the realms. The only ones that would come visit me anymore were my dear sister and niece. When I made the journey to Yew from Britain, I was met with scowls and contempt from her widower. Rightfully so.

Even brandishing his now tarnished sword from his Yew militia days as he pushed me from his tavern. It was all a bit fuzzy due to the keg of ale I had laid to waste on the journey. The one thing that was burned into me were the tears running down my now-grown niece's cheeks as the door closed in my face. Where had the time gone? It seemed as though it was but a week ago that my niece was sitting on my bench, handing me gears and giggling at my poor rendition of the latest bard's tune as we fixed a golem's arm.

I am not really sure how I made it home or even how much time had passed when I finally did. Most of it was in a drunken haze, and as well for some time after. The ale tankards didn't fill themselves and the rent on my room was long overdue, so I took to peddling trinkets and fixing miscellaneous mechanical things by day and sleeping face down in a flagon at night, doing neither one very well. Then one day a stranger approached me, the whole ordeal was fuzzy as a satyr's hindside. Looking back, it all seemed odd.

It was too early in the day for me to have begun my nightly ritual of being face down in some crusty bread at the tavern with an empty jug of cider at my side. I believe he said his name was Bellrick and he had a job for me. We proceeded to.. [rest of pages are torn out]