The sound of a glorified piece of charcoal serving as a pencil scratching over cheap paper could be heard in the sanctuary. It was a quiet night, not many others shared it with her at present. She wrote in a small book, bound in cheap scratched leather, with various undefined stains on the outside. Not for a lack of care, the book had already been in this state when she had found it years ago, discarded, somewhere in the slums. The empty pages had absorbed some moisture and bits of dirt crusted the upper edges. At first she had considered trying to sell it somewhere, before realizing that the only thing she would receive for showing that thing in any shop of Vallaki was likely to be chased out with a broom. And depending on the individual shop owners mood, a good strike or two.
She then considered just discarding it herself again, but something caused her to keep it. She didn’t make use of it at first for some time. Whenever she actually had money, there were far more important things to purchase. Food, warm clothing, heating material. Usually in this order.
It had been weeks before she found a stump of a pen, barely enough to still write with and not very well. She lacked practice. She could, barely, read, writing was something she rarely had the opportunity to practice. But now she had. And so the first pages of the little book were swiftly filled with writing practice. She started by copying various shop signs and the like. She had to interrupt her practice when the stubble finally became too small for even the most enthused writer, not even enough to be held with two fingers.
The pen she was using now was nothing like that stubble. It wasn’t overly expensive, but the wood holding the coal hadn’t splintered or soaked with wood and the coal didn’t threaten to break off whenever she needed to sharpen the tip. Richer people would probably scoff at the notion of using something like this inferior tool. But it did its job and that was well enough for her. And so she sat there an wrote.
It has been some days now, since I officially joined the church. And still, there is a certain wonder to it. It is not always exciting. Standing all night silently with my hands folded in front of me certainly does not cause the heart to race. But it feels right. And that is the important bit. I believe to a certain degree at least, the reason why this effect is so strong on me is the sharp contrast to my former life. There seems to be purpose behind the things I do now. I do not feel as if I am merely drifting about. And while, true enough, sometimes little happens, there are these moments that mark clearly that I made the right call.
I am not necessarily speaking so much of fighting the undead. With the Morninglords glory, I have started to become rather apt at that. But more then that, I enjoy these small moments where I can make a difference to people. To make them feel just a little better. At least I hope that is what I am doing. I am aware that I am not overly good at reading people. Maybe I will have to talk to Michael or Loredana about this. If I wish to help, I must be sure that I do not inadvertently cause more damage.
Still, I think I did make a small difference this morning, to one person. It probably did not change their whole world or outlook, but maybe it gave them a small nudge forwards. And after all, every journey starts with a small step.
