It's been a while since I'm spending my time with Piperel, staying over by her place. Last night she asked me if I'd like to move in. I think I might, there's nowhere else for me to go at the moment and most of my nights have been in her bed so far anyway. I slept in today, waking up with her gone to the Dawn Hall already. The wound seemed to have been healing nicely, making the pain a lot more bearable. And I'll probably need to go fetch my things from Lizz later today. My old pair of brown breaches is still there, as well a number of other articles. A shirt, I think. I normally just went and changed, wash myself and perhaps pass out for a few hours. Won't say I'll miss that peculiar living arrangement. A hot meal, a soft bed and a woman you care for has so much more appeal than a straw heap and a cold cloth.
The bandits and the posters on the walls around town have had emotions raging. Me getting almost stabbed to death, not helping any in that regard, either. There was some talk anongst a few of us Dawn members of plans wanting to be made, ways thought out how to get the bastards that got me. It has only been a week or so since the incident so I'm in no real hurry. I'll keep my eyes and ears open, make a turn by beggars alley alone, see what I can find and think of. The bounty has increased to almost 3000 silvers if we manage to catch both of the cunts.
I've been avoiding thinking of it. And writing it down makes it even more real, perhaps. Gods and the stars in the heavens above, writing these thoughts down sometimes makes me wonder of the structure of my own sanity. My child may have been born already, somewhere in some dark or dreary back country farmhouse, or out in the woods somewhere under a canopy of green leafs. Or perhaps inside an old cottage in Chetwood. I've said my goodbyes as best as a man could, I think, I hope. I still think about them, perhaps some nights in my dreams they still haunt like so much of the past continues to do.
Lately I don't know what to do with myself; been walking in the streets of Bree, just strolling about again. Everything seems so similar, so the same as it always were. There's a mob of drunken fools in the Pony, there's a brawl outside. Inside, and once more, you find maidens with their bosoms bared for the next show of excitement to take them beyond and into the thrill of danger, lust and desire. There's melancholic gentlemen, downing shot after shot of expensive hard liqueur, drowning their sorrows and woes in the pungent smell of alcohol. There's bastards that sire bastards, that breeds bastards and feeds on bastards lies and bastard beliefs. Simpleminded, most of them congregate and gather around in intoxicated raucousness, drinking, moaning, asking and inquiring. They're like hungry vultures in seek of some spontaneous epiphany, a shining light of reason to blind them brilliantly to the sight of meaning. Within a glass, a jar, a mug. Within a tankard. Within a tavern.
I probably just need to get back and settled again after the attack, or at least get a foothold on what it is what I wanted to do. It's like grasping towards some water-image and seeing it just disappear again an ripple through the surface. I guess almost dying does that to a person. Let him think about things.
