The Daybook of Èleonore Morel

Musings written in the morn, prior to sailing across the Osberth Lake.

My gracious daughter and ward came to me, a kitten nestled in her folded arms and proclaimed; “she will share my name just as you and I do, mother!” 

I was open about my displeasure for the pet, much to my dear Èleonore’s disdain. Despite the irresistible intrigue it held over my daughter (and even worse, the men-at-arms of my camp), a feline simply could not sail across fathomless waters for months at a time. It is one thing to deny a predator the natural right to its hunting ground, but it is another to alienate it completely from its very home - a strangely familiar sentiment I find my pen returning to quite often these few mornings.

I’d like to tell myself that I have moved past the mourning of my dear Aubie, carrying his memory wherever my travels may find me, but I fear that I haven’t gotten over my animosity towards the silence that has since replaced his warm presence. There are days in which I look across the fire and bask in the silence only to be confronted by the thought that perhaps I should have known not to see him there. Even when my blade should be drawn, I silently curse myself as my eyes dart beyond our skein and across the closing distance, realising that the saddle and steed at the head of our formation is not my own.

It's only in the nights when I retreat to my pavilion and lie facing the stars that I worry - was it truly right?

He was too loving to be clashing steel. Too brilliant to be buried beneath the coarse sands of Rauberax. Even to this day, I have yet to write to his family and the court of Vescortia of his passing. Should the heavens grant me the strength to be able to withstand their judgement, perhaps they may one day grant me the leniency that I am so hesitant to grant myself.

Alas, my second calls to me from beyond my drapes, caterwauling furiously now. Another disagreement between Kelemen and Lewis I expect. Our company’s lot is tiresome indeed.