Dorien had hidden himself away in the basement once he had returned home, locking the door behind him as he went. He’d talk again later, after he sorted himself out.
He lost his shirt, his harnesses, twelve of his fifteen knives, and dropped them all on the ground. He grabbed a quarterstaff off of the weapons rack, and moved into position. Everything had been controlled, not a movement out of place.
So why did it feel like he was losing it anyway?
Dorien stepped into the jeweler’s store, and smiled at the owner. As she came over, he placed three gem fragments on the counter.
“Do you remember the last ring I gave you?”
“Mhm, do you want the same done to yours? Congratulations, by the way. Can I see it?”
Dorien smiled wider. “Thank you.” He holds out his hand, a new gold band wrapped around his ring finger.
“Simple yet elegant,” she said, turning his hand over. “Would you like the gems placed on the inside or…?”
He sat with his legs crossed, hands resting on his knees. On the floor of the basement, he had drawn a circle around him in chalk. The basement was dark, save for one lantern, just the way he liked it; it was cool as well, but that was to be expected with the month.
Dorien breathed in, and meditated.
He probably hadn’t inspired much confidence when he had come home slightly drunk – rum had never been his drink – but he had to thank the fact that the only difference between his sober self and drunk self was that one had a more hands on approach to conversations.
Dear Journal,
I didn’t think I would be writing in you anymore because you had fulfilled your original purpose, and in the recent months I didn’t need you. I have a much better form for reliable information of my day to day activities, among others.
Things change though, more than one thing from the past has come back to show their ugly head.
I should stop being so dramatic, it’s not like anyone else will read this.
Passages from the writings...
I knew it was going to be a bad day the moment it started raining outside. This bad day came in the form of a man with hair as bright as the setting sun. He came to me so I could solve his problem, like so many others before him.
The fact that I was paid for this only eased some of the stupidity that I faced while doing the job.
I’m Natharai Ebonrook, Private Eye.
“Don’t they usually go together?”
“What?” Procrastin looked over at him. “No, setting fire to things is pretty much just a mage or arsonist thing.”
“So, that covers the two of us quite aptly then.” Dorien tapped his chin, hooking his thumb into his belt.
“You’re an arsonist?”
He had been standing in front of this mailbox for thirty minutes, holding onto a pad of paper, a pencil, and an open envelop.
He tried to write this letter at home, but he had kept scrapping any ideas, anything he wrote, out of fear. Also, because even if he did manage to complete the letter, he doubted he’d have been able to get to the mailbox to send it off.
So here he was.
For the past thirty minutes.
The first thing Dorien did when he locked the door was brew some tea.
The second thing he did was herd the cats upstairs into the bedroom, and closed the bedroom door.
The third thing was returning downstairs to set up the defenses under each of the latched windows. The knives-hammered-into-boards were generally hidden in cupboards during the day, in case they had polite company. It didn’t take very long, the redhead having gotten used to the routine of it all.
It needed to be someplace discreet, so he had figured that the basement was the best place. The target board was on hinges for this purpose, it kept the secret hidden but accessible for those who knew it was there.
"What are you doing?"
