It's been a long day. I have little to write that I would share with the world, but I write in this blasted thing none the less. Aran has rubbed off on me, and I keep his habits still after all these years. How long has it been? How long have I been wandering around with little more than a word sent to my dear friend? I wonder if he still remembers me, if he kept the lockpick I made for him... It would be just like him.
Leo reminds me of him sometimes. For a second, in the heat of battle, I'll see his scales in the corner of my eyes and I'll turn to greet my old friend only to find him there. It's utterly infuriating. If only those men hadn't been careless, hadn't tried to steal from people they obviously weren't ready to take on... If only I hadn't run away. But those are thoughts for another time.
Apparently I am treating this like a journal, not like the record it is intended to be. I suppose that will have to do for now. It is fine with me. I like having a place to get everything out. It's not like the others share their emotions with me, nor I with them. It suits me fine. Or so I thought. What I saw tonight troubles me. More than I would care to admit with the others. I fear they may have noticed. My jabs weren't quite as harsh, my sarcasm tinged with a bit of sorrow, of (dare I say?) madness. After this settles down a bit... then I can work on being more sociable. Maybe I'll write to Aran. Maybe.
Two sides of one coin. I need to keep that in mind. If I keep those images in my head, maybe I can do something about it. It's not like they're going anywhere soon anyway.
Bryn Swiftrunner
