text: August 11th, 1385 Today, I chanced upon the most unlikely friend. He’s somewhat diminutive, and his form seems to flux and shift. Encircling his head are rings, and his visage boasts tens of hollowed eyes, each brimming with a boundless curiosity toward me. Never before have I ever beheld a creature consumed with the same zeal for existence as I. Alas, he hasn’t got a name, which we must remedy as I do not believe our last conversation was the final time we will ever speak. Mother would never approve of this arrangement, so she mustn’t ever know. She hates this entity nonsense, as she puts it. She goes on and on about how it’s such a waste of time and energy to study that which we cannot see and her lectures persist without end. I say that is why we must study it. All that lies within our sight has long been unearthed. There’s nothing novel about book studies or maths. I find that all to be a waste of time and energy, and a lot of rubbish, might I add. Back to my new friend, of course, with whom I crossed paths over in Merton Priory. Engaged in my obligatory studies, I was startled by a most peculiar sound--a faint whistle seeming to emanate from the very earth itself, amongst the buried. It was absolutely haunting. The way the tune carried on the wind was wistful and echoey, like a shadow of itself. Of course, I sprung to my feet, hiked my skirt, and took off running after it. Following my diligent pursuit, I met the critter, clad in shadowy black, and he told me to be not afraid. He was staticky and flickering in the setting sunlight, seeming to be almost caught betwixt and between--neither wholly present in our world nor entirely belonging to any other. I mistook him for the spirit of a child who had recently been laid to rest. He quickly corrected me and said he had fallen from a great height and was simply finding his bearings. Oh, the marvel he be! I haven’t got any other words to describe just how incredulous the little beast truly is. He told me about from whence he came: ‘nother world like ours but void of colour, save the brilliant golds that I saw capriciously coursing through his form like lichtenburg scaring. I inferred his appearance must be representative of this other plane of existence. And his voice! It reverberated bizarrely. When you close your eyes, you should be able to tell where a sound is coming from based on direction and proximity. These two laws of the world did not apply to him. He would speak to me, and his voice was not derived from a single point like how my voice would my mouth; rather, it would swirl about my head, confusing my ears as to where it was coming from as it seemed to be coming from everywhere all at once. I don’t know if I should be afraid of him. I suppose if I am meant to be, what a gift it is to feel no fear at all. I am walking with the serpent, unescorted by any higher powers to protect me. I find them needless, for this serpent is a friend. Regardless of the sharp teeth and erraticity, he is my friend. GC June 29th, 1386 I never did believe it was possible to have an entirely individual and unique experience, yet here I am living out each and every day unlike anyone ever has before The beast and I have spent most afternoons and evenings together, reciting our histories to one another. He’s told me more about where he came from, but I’m afraid most of what he says goes right over my head, as such tales are incomprehensible to me. I cannot fathom them. The beast did present me with a gift. Its nature eludes precise definition, but it has transported me between realms. I find myself simultaneously within his world and mine, and though I remain flesh and bone, I fancy it a sort of third eye. He’s gifted me sight, for I was blind, but now I see. This new gift has taken most of my time to explore--fascinating things, really. I’ve filled countless journals with discoveries that defy earthly logic. Mother berates me daily for what looks like staring at the ceiling is actually staring into a vast expanse of stars and galaxies unseen by any other human. "Look too deep," she nags, "and you'll find the back of your own head." Perhaps she is not entirely mistaken. I’ve neglected my practical studies, but what I’ve gotten myself into is greater than any equation or fable. Mother mustn’t find out. GC September 17, 1387 I fear I may have befriended a true beast. While I called him this before for his appearance, the title now holds a new meaning. The beast has taken up new hobbies, for lack of a better term. While I trust he means no harm, his curiosity often gets the better of him. I’ve seen him tear rabbits apart with his claws only to dissect what’s inside. While I explained this to him beforehand, he insisted he sees it for himself. His relentless pursuit of understanding, devoid of malice yet terrifying in its intensity, troubles me deeply. The concept of life and living and breathing and dying are positively enrapturing for a creature who has never experienced any of it, I suppose. He doesn’t derive pleasure from the torture. At least, it does not appear that he does. The shrieks of the little animals that have fallen victim to the beast don’t enhance the experiment any. However, they also do not deter it. Chilling is the best word I can find to describe this behaviour. GC December 2nd, 1387 I cannot, in good conscience, continue to turn a blind eye. His experiments are growing, and he’s now targeting higher life forms, seeing nothing awry with his behaviour. I do believe there is a possibility of stopping him. Anytime I express any sort of disagreeance with his behaviour, he throws a tantrum as a toddler would if you told him he couldn’t do something he’d already set his mind to. He’s becoming more erratic and unpredictable, unleashing new entities from his other world. He’s told me about this phenomenon: a soul link. Through this ritual, two willing (in one sense or another) souls can be joined in an unbreakable bond. I believe I hold his trust. Once he and I are joined as one, I can only hope I am strong enough to keep him at bay. GC September 19th, 1456 This will be my final entry. The beast and I are one now, bound by our souls, intertwined forever in a dance of control and submission. With my gift, I’m able to suppress him, and while I’d like to trust myself to keep mine own head on straight, the beast has a talent for letting you think you’re the one in control. Should I ever find myself torturing something for being alive, I shall know I am not. Not fully. I often look back on these entries. There must be hundreds by this point, filled with my discoveries about this beast, who I’ve recently taken to calling The First. A pandora’s box of terrific creatures, spirits, bogeymen, and other shadows one would encounter in the night. I’ve dedicated the rest of my life to hunting down as many as I can, but I fear I may not live long enough to fix all the atrocities The First has committed. Sometimes, I believe I should have looked deeper into mathematics and literature. At least then, the world wouldn’t be plagued with enemies only mine own cursed eyes can see. I’ve noticed I’m starting to sound like my mother, stifling The First's desire to learn all he can about the unseen world around him. I understand her better now. I still hate her for everything, just as I’m starting to hate myself for starting to sound like my mother. Bitterness in its purest form. Much like The First but so painfully unaware of it. That’s one thing the beast had on her. GC