Day Four-Fifty-One: It's just a spat, surely

The going rate for saving somebody's life appears to be grief, these days. I've gotten nothing but grief since Libby woke up.

Allow me to expand a bit on what happened last week, because it turns out that Grylock, blessed, crafty Grylock, followed me. He saw me sneak out of camp, because he's an early riser; he saw me follow a bunch of cockroaches; he saw me walk through a wall of solid stone. Didn't manage to scent anybody who was IN the cave, go figure, but he found it nevertheless.

He also managed to hide when Doc and his three dead-but-not-dead peons charged up to the cave. Doc had been screaming about 'suspicions' and 'deceit' and 'I didn't make you this way' the whole time, so Grylock had ample opportunity to make himself scarce behind a rock, his poisonheart drawn in case of trouble.

He watched them enter the illusory wall in front of the cave. He heard a commotion inside, and some ungodsly howls. He watched as Doc and a thing composed of three people he'd thought dead fled from the cave, ran to a small clearing, and… stopped. Doc pulled out a Grylock-doesn't-know-what, there was a flash of green light, and when a puff of foul mist had faded the group was gone.

(Grylock was glad, too. Apparently they smelled absolutely horrible to his goblin nose. Poor guy.)

Grayson came next, yet despite being wounded he managed to slip away without a sound, completely evading Grylock's keen eyes. I was the last to leave, dragging an unconscious Libby out with me. That's when Grylock ran for help.

And, now, here we are. Back in Pubtwon. Only Libby isn't here anymore, because when she woke up she beat the shit out of me, called me the worst father in the world, and ran off.

I didn't see it coming. I'd been sitting vigil over Libby's bed back at camp the entire weekend, inside one of the half-ruined houses. It was probably 3 or 4 am this morning when she finally woke up with a big, nasty bump on her head from the fall…

… but that didn't stop her from slugging me one in the face.

I've been hit by Libby before. I've chronicled many beatings in this diary. But now I know I've never really been hit. She must have held back before, because this hit, perhaps tempered by several months of working with heavy rocks and machinery, managed to dent my breastplate. For some people I know that's not a big deal, but Libby's just a normal woman.

A.

Really.

Strong.

Normal woman.

Knocked off my chair and still half asleep I stared up at Libby's shadow as more blows came raining down on me, each punctuated by another accusation.

"HE'S GONE! I KNOW HE'S GONE! YOU LEFT HIM TO DIE!"

"YOU'RE NOT LOOKING FOR HIM, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

"YOU CHEATED ON ME! THAT WHORE! THAT WHORE!"

"FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! I'LL KILL YOU!"

Leaving me a bloody mess on the ground, Libby eventually retreated. Her screaming woke up the whole mining settlement - but no one managed to spot her as she left. Nobody can even tell me which way she went, because the rugged roads of Pubtwon are a mess of footprints and wagon wheel furrows.

My arm is broken. So's my nose. Grylock figures I have bruised ribs, and he wonders how painful it must have been for Libby to punch metal. He says I'll be staying in bed for at least a week while I mend, and that I shouldn't be leaving Pubtwon for at least two weeks. Travelling could muck up my wounds as I heal.

But I don't have a choice. Because Libby's eyes, oh, gods, her eyes, they were so white. And that's why I don't blame her for this pain, because it's not her fault. I know it isn't.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Invalid