A stained journal sits alone in a pine box, its lid sealed against light or prying eye's. The journal of Thief, Murderer, and Felon.
I Prytanis,
son of shroud, scorn of faithful, and sire of scandal write this journal to correlate my thoughts to put rhyme to my reason, though of late it be hard. Who'd have thought some dock tough from [censored], would amount to anything let alone envoy of the Mistress, and Lord.
But even now with eternity before me, I still hold fast to my uncertainty. What of the next mission or the next, when I was scarce an hour old, I ran up and down this core with this axe in hand and no personal cause to my name, wounding myself when I had no one to fight, I was born of death, and so sow nothing more. Even now an accomplished agent, with a score and more successful missions to my name if all should go well, I will be simply given more, shipped off to the next quarrel, the next war. It is rare that I even know the reason why I must swing my axe, merely a name, time and place.
Prytanis burn your orders, Prytanis silence the witness, Prytanis dispose of the evidence. Prytanis, Prytanis.
Is there an end, merely a name on some charter to be replaced when I cannot help but fail. Is this why I torment them so, those who I must pillage and slay, a final twist of the dagger, cruel flourish. Cause that is the only thing left to me. I am the cruel flourish, I am the happy little sailor whose ship and water both are but violence and brute force. I was born on a dock, when two hands exchanged coins. The face of death's head smiling up at me as I let weapons disguised as grain onto the shore, how easy it was to turn a hand or an eye, how easy it was to fill one’s pocket when good men turned aside. Ignorance became compliance, complicit became death.
When they first approached me… the [censored], they made me an offer I could not refuse. I was their man as soon as I answered, no before that. As soon as they beheld me, as are we all sons and daughters of [censored]. I was all swagger and pomp weedling to my betters and lording above my lessers. Now I see the machine for what it is a great thing of iron and judgement like the make of mechanists or tinkerer, such scope and dreadful colossus. Marvel and wonder at its horror, but not too closely for often a gear or crank catches someone's mistake and pulling them into the machinery, pulling off the offending limb like some angry steel child seeing how far his toys could stretch, it was never far enough.
I have witnessed such when one had tried to leave the “organization”, how the machine had tossed him about, how it swallowed him bones and all, the only sign that he ever was, was the sudden space he left. Quickly filled by another. The gears were always hungry.
I Prytanis, loyal servant ...
