Written in flowing Italian, inside the dusty, yellowed pages of this decrepit journal, is the writing of an elderly man. The writing of Adeodatus Crescento. Inside the large pages of large, yellowed and worn journal, sealed with a lock, are his thoughts, memories, and more. Detailed sketches of the human body, and the inner workings and diagrams of the organs, lay scattered about the pages aside long lists of notes. It appears as though he may be in the process of studying the mechanisms of the body which we all live in...
It appears I arrived in a strange land. The people here do not speak Italian, and this is most certainly not Venice. The land here has no comparison to the small town which I had been attending Carnivale in for the past week or so. A sad state this pathetic little village I seem to be in, is currently stuck in. The people here lack even the slightest hint of any sort of education, or civilized mannerisms. A most certain shame. It appears I will have to seek aid in finding out what this dreadful land is called. Perhaps I will be able to find a like-minded person to share my time with as an associate or such, instead of this common peasantry and riff-raff.
Till then,
-Adeodatus Crescento
