[JamOfBoy]

A smooth navy blue notebook belonging to a diminutive once-mercenary. Pages are not numbered, dated, or titled.
The handwriting is neat in some parts and more lax in others. Upon the book's front is a phrase:

The Crying Wail of the End,
The Ringing Song of Rebirth

---

In my time existing, I never thought to keep a journal or diary or records that did not pertain to matters of business. Yet as I sit here, watching the hours go by, this new idle sensation that echoes hollow clunks throughout my soul (dramatic phrasing) has spurred me to the more mundane activities; here I am writing about my feelings.

I will not mention my name in these passages. Perhaps it is the whispers of delirium brought about by this fever, but I simply feel like I won't. This ought to be a reflection of myself, and so declaring myself to myself is redundant. Then again, I suppose declaring anything would be, so this line of thought will stop.

My Crow never leaves without making sure I'll be okay. It's a horrid feeling, being the source of concern, especially to those I care for. I share her concerns that the fever keeps returning even after she works her spells yet I play the part of reassurance. It is only a fever and it is only causing dehydration. The incident which occurred at the origin of my fever is surely relevant - I have yet to figure out exactly how. I knew the day would come when my home was something else, I knew yet I wasn't prepared - I have been entertaining the thought that the fever is a representation of this somehow.

I recall now my outburst of anger at Scaldor - is he perhaps the softest among our false-blood? Such a fate was merciful for someone he supposedly hated. Or perhaps there is more nuance to the notion? That he could not stand to look at the figure he had, to some extent, respected all this time and enact such malice. Love, festering in the fringes of that anger, weakening it until a quick death is mistaken for justice. Just thinking about the wasted potential makes me boil, angry, despairing over the information locked within a three-fold century-old soul, the arcane worth behind an equally aged shell, it makes my skin feel like it's bubbling but it makes my mind clear. Wrath heats me up and makes me boil.
And when I boil, my shivering stops. Never had I thought to be thankful for anger. Sorry Scaldor.

Between this and the last paragraph, my Crow returned with food. I ate as much as I could and thought all the while (when she wasn't pecking at me).

If anger neutralises an aspect of my fever, is the source of the fever intrinsically emotional? I know I'm not dealing with the average malady.

I want to visit Lanette tomorrow.

[JamOfBoy]

I was unable to venture out these past few days. Lethargy is very annoying!

The worst part of it is how it saps my strength at the most annoying times. The day I had planned to visit Lanette was particularly bad, with weakness denying me the opportunity to do anything productive at all. In moments of weakness, I like to practice using the twin sticks that Onigans use as eating utensils - but on that day, I couldn't even do that. My fingers lacked the strength to retain their dexterity and I clumsily dropped them over and over.

The timing was too convenient. These days of notable weakness have something in common - the worry of, or desire to see someone from the company. Yesterday, I thought about the particularly fresh members - that annoying brat that patrolled the halls, and Immolandus. Ashuro, I have always worried about, but his seclusion and isolation is to be respected. From the murmurings I used to hear, I can discern that he has his own net to fall back upon.

I was always meant to worry about them. It was part of my function. Amidst the brutes of body and soul, I was the mind that cut cleanly where they faltered! And where they faltered was their own minds, emotions, thoughts. They aren't equipped to handle that themselves - they need others. It doesn't have to be me, but... well, part of me wants it to be. It's annoying. This curse that, when worried enough to act, you're unable to.

Alas. I will devote my efforts to recovering - my Crow has an idea that I must dwell upon. An exchange of knowledge, and if I'm right about who - or what - we'll be dealing with, I had best prepare.

I am growing weary. Not just physically, but mentally. This ailment is taking a toll. Tomorrow I will try to work.

[JamOfBoy]

I have been thinking, long and hard, about some matter of great import.

Family. How twisted mine is. Or was, rather, for I think I have come to a conclusion regarding this matter - something I glimpsed clear flashes of during my visit to Scaldor's place.

I will renounce the Badgers as family. They are not my kin. They weren't ever, but I had hoped to pretend, for their sakes and perhaps mine. I will write down my thoughts and explanations regarding this conclusion so that I have pre-articulated thoughts to give to someone if ever they take outrage with these matters.

First off - I read something recently and a line in particular stuck out. Blood makes you related, love makes you family. Is that not a perfect summation of my feelings? We share no blood, and there is scarce love. The only thing we ever shared were the so-called shackles imposed upon us; and I have means to believe that our familial bonds and these shackles have more alike than most people realise.

Was it not a means to provide a sea-soaked ember of hope amidst our writhing ocean? Enough of a compulsion for comradery so that we don't leave one another behind and the broken mend one another before they are cast away. To conceal us in the darkness of our work would lead to despair - but conjure up a beacon for us to look up towards, united - that some day WE, the FAMILY, might be free 

No more a shackle than the rest of it! Another link in the chain that keeps us bound - content enough, comforted enough by one another to endure! For her sake, to absolve ourselves from the stains I know they all see on us, I will renounce them willingly. But for my sake, to encroach ever closer to ridding myself of these ethereal hands on my shoulders, did I consider this path to begin with.

My fever has been worse recently. Pyrram, Lanette, I'm sorry. You two are the only ones I would call family. But I can't be picky in this situation, can I? I either reject them all or I don't reject them at all. Nothing should change, save for titles, but perhaps that is me being hopeful. We have all lived our lives with brothers and sisters, and I cannot imagine how they would all react to losing one.