Day Two Hundred-Eleven: The Week in Review

I'm feeling a strong inclination to return to depression mode, diary. Last week was just onea those weeks. Yeesh.

So let's sum up: the rats have been driven from the castle. Officially. Their 'nest', which is conveniently not being called a 'city' like it should, has been completely destroyed by Lord Knight Eve. She would have won the contest, but since she's technically a guard, that prize went to Kierkegaard.

That… little… bastard. You should've seen him, accepting his prize (a bronzed pile of rat corpses on a plaque) from his king. He spent the whole award ceremony swearing at Jeffrey. He's the only one who can get away with that. Anyone else would be beheaded.

Or would they? Not sure, these days. After the strike, I bet Jeffrey's more cautious about his actions.

Maybe.

Probably not. We'll see how long all the reforms last. Democracy is kinda ineffective out here. But does a strike COUNT as democracy? Or is it… like… democracy on strike? Ah, bugger it.

Anyway. Bastard penguin, murderous daughter, rat city burned to the ground, most of the rats gone. Most. At least a few of them made it out of the castle, or they're hiding somewhere within the walls. Not sure which it is, but they've been officially replaced by guinea pigs, so that's that, I guess.

I can't believe Eve did that. She destroyed an entire culture. Potentially under the control of Kierkegaard, of all people. I guess it wouldn't be that difficult to convince her to kill a load of animals, but… how did HE manage to bring her along? Why would she listen to a bloody penguin, when she wouldn't even listen to his royal master?

I'm also surprised Kierkegaard hasn't sent people to arrest me, or something. He didn't seem at ALL surprised by the city he found, so he probably knows the rats are intelligent. Which means he probably knows I'm in cahoots with 'em. Which means… what? He doesn't figure I'm any kinda threat to 'im? That's rather insulting, coming from a squat, nude bird with a top hat. EVERYTHING should be a threat to Kierkegaard.

Bah. Stupid saucy waterfowl. To think, I thought he was the most adorable thing on the planet when he first entered the castle. Now he's just a loathsome little beast, and since I don't wanna think about him anymore, I'll move onto, hopefully, a more redemptive subject: Eve.

Eve perplexes me, diary. She really does. Every day I think of her at least once (usually when I come across the butchered corpse of some poor animal), and every day I try and figure out what she's thinking. Is she thinking ANYTHING? Or is every impulse in her body geared towards murder? Logan tried to convince me once that she cares for me, but… I don't see it…

Bah. I'm not even amused by the cockroach cupboard anymore. That's how much of a funk I'm in, diary. Fatherly woes suck all the joy out of the simple, mysterious things in life.

And I still want to BE a father. That's the kicker of it all. I've got a house; I've got a wife; I've got a job; I've got, like, possessions; I've got YOU, diary. And I have a daughter. All those things are under one roof, 'cept the daughter. She would COMPLETE things, y'know?

Y'know?

Y'know…

I can picture it now. Me in the living room, writing away at a desk; Libby in the bedroom, tinkering away on some new addition to the Matriach; Eve hauling a slaughtered bison through the front door, beaming happily at mama and papa as she shows off her latest kill. Dinner at home tonight.

Or, hell, maybe in my delusional world she MIGHT just be a normal BABY, like she's SUPPOSED TO BE

I STILL DON'T GET THAT

SHE SHOULDN'T BE ANY BIGGER THAN MY DAMNED FOREARM

huff

huff

Sorry, diary. Don't know why I bother to write out my breaths. I get so into writing you that it seems natural to discuss EVERYTHING I'm doing. Like, just now, I cracked my knuckles. See, that seems natural.

But I don't have to write it.

Bah. Maybe I should have Robert the Librarian edit you, diary. Bet my writing would improve drastically if he did. Then maybe I could revel in one of my successes, rather than sitting in the dumps with my life's one failure.

(Shut up, I know I've failed many more ways than one. I don't need a snarky reminder from YOU, diary.)

(…)

(Sorry. I love you, diary. Hugs.)

I need a way to connect with Eve. Something that'll let me get in her head. Watching her 'train' Logan as a knight didn't work, though… neither did a picnic… or a polar beat hunting expedition… so what am I to do? Guess I've got something to think about this week while I guard the slop buckets outside the dungeon.

Because, y'know, it's super important that those not get stolen. Bloody Captain Cedric, you think he'd give me some better assignments by now. There are diplomats from some kingdom or another visiting at the moment; you'd figure I'd be better served at least WATCHING them. I can do it from a distance if you're afraid of bungling, stupid Cedric!

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Guard