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“Entry 9 ~

It would be a dire dishonesty to claim that the majority of surprises that waylay me along the path of my life are those of a pleasant nature, and it saddens me to admit such. However, in between this multitude of thistles that cling to my cloak, there is a small number of sweet clovers which become tangled among their mess. Its unfortunate that at times, it takes me quite a while to realize the significance of such certain small flowers.

The most recent example is the one that comes the most readily to mind. A brief stretch of time ago, I participated in a contest of sorts. It was a hunt of crows and vultures, a search for tokens on the basis of riddles. At the end, with my body pierced by fatigue and my boots flushed with the agony of the feet they bound, I was offered a choice between a variety of containers, each concealing the gifts within. Between the crates and satchels, I spied a small box, crafted by a careful hand. It radiated a magical aura, which drew me to it, though the irony of the situation arises from the fact that the prize I now covet the most amongst those that I had found within it was the one most mundane. There were gemstones bound with arcane might, there was a loaf blessed by the gods, and the container itself was a masterwork example of magical construction. However, the potential of the lot was absent in comparison to that offered by the bloom of a single, golden flower.

The bloom, more than a hand’s span in diameter, is flush with a circular grid-work of black seeds. Yellow petals, now dried with time, encircle this bed of potential life. Despite its entirely mundane nature, I had difficulty identifying the article. A majority of the botanical texts within the library seemed to lack its description, and hope was almost drained from me in the entirety when I at last came across a depiction of it in a particularly old tome. If the book is to be believed, I had been awarded with the flower of the sun.

It seems necromancers are not the only ones considered to be dark-hearted by the local judges… the courtesy also extends to this certain example of flora. For what reasoning, dare I ask? The plant possesses none of the addictive properties of alcohol, where when the avid drinker decides to leave the bottle behind him, he is beset by physical sickness capable of even bringing death. When I chose to taste a few seeds from within the golden flower’s crown, no clouding of the mind beset me. To tempt the ruling even further, the flower is known to thrive in both frost and drought, making it ideal for the harsh climes that ravage these lands. The only necessity it requires for its growth is that of the sun’s presence. It seems the only issue arguing against its presence is man’s own foul nature. It is his own greed that had exiled the flower. I fear I may be personifying the bloom a minute sliver too much, but where is its fault that man himself is too flawed to coexist with what it comes to offer?

Perhaps it simply is my yearning to find a fellow exile so readily, to find a brother rogue whose nature needs to be clouded in deceit for his own survival… even if I chose to find it within such a dubious symbol. Perhaps again, it is the manifestation of some of my own malicious nature that spurs the following agenda. The Fates had blessed me with seeds that still harbor life within them, and patches where the sun kisses the earth are not in that particularly hard to find. The sunflower is a plant blessed with fortitude, which makes my task all the easier. It is my hope that once the snows melt for the brief summers of this land, I can take my shovel into my hands once more, but instead of exhuming ancient bone, I will consecrate the earth with such a defiant blessing as this flower’s seed offers. As not to incite the inquisitor’s wrath, the first spots will need to be far from the eyes of man. Once ripe, however, my agenda will be merged with the efforts of the birds, and I will gather more such seed, and continue to spread the incursion from year to year. Elves are blessed with the longevity that would allow me to stride past the folds of ages, so if I hold to the determination of such an annual ritual, the decades of the future should see a return of this unjustly tried exile, for better or for worse.

If the hands of the judges divine bring my death, and I will nevermore rise from the depths of Hel as my form dissolves into the earth, let it not be the proverbial daisies that rise fourth from my grave. Instead, if the Fates permit, let it be this solar flower that crawls fourth from the silt above me. Let their stalks rise high in mocking rebellion to the hollow ideals of the men who gaze upon them. Let this golden bloom be the eternal symbol of my mutiny.”