I never thought that I would keep a journal. The writing of my thoughts on travel, war, and self seems so vulnerable, as though this book could be snatched away and my private sanctity, my mind, all revealed.

Not that I am presuming to be of interest to anyone; it is hardly the case that my musings would be cataclysm for disaster should they fall into the wrong hands. But ever since I was young, hiding inside of my own head helped me to identify myself as separate from the other children in the village, and steered me towards my destiny. My thoughts insulated me from the insults, the cajoling, the teasing. ‘A filthy little Zulfli’. They derided me for my interests in the arcane. ‘Trickery. Voodoo’. My mind was my only retreat.

To write about it now seems a little frightening. To write at all for something other than the occasional book keeping Faranell submits us to is not unlike an adventure. I could never have thought I would ever be literate, let alone keep a journal. Though I learned to read and write both in Orcish and Gutterspeak for the sake of my profession, writing for pleasure seems to be the new frontier, the unconquered pocket of my mind.

It is currently early in the morning, and the dawn has only just broken. My old life sleeps on another continent. A life lost to me now.

The apothecaries here find me to be foul; a living abberation. I try so hard to assert myself as their equal: to show the Forsaken here that I am not merely a quaint potion doc, but a pyromancer with considerable knowledge of the arcane. I act as though I’ve always been here. That I’ve never been anyone else before this time. I feign ignorance when I hear Zandali spoken. I cringe when I hear Trollish creole spoken. And yet I sometimes want nothing more than to sharpen my tusks and gore my meals, sing loudly and dance and sway to the rush of drums threatening to deafen my ears.

Can my spirit ever leave Sen’jin village?