While the numbers demonstrate a lack of writing for 11 years, in reality it has been simply a day or two. Time passes wildly in the Feywild. Anyways, to get to the point.

On the 13th of Con’quest of the year 1710, our completely injudicious captain “freed”, under the jurisdiction and power of none whomsoever, the dark, blotted scum. In the absurdity of the matter, I figured I would have a few words with him in order to convince him of the many benefits and reasons to maintaining the drow as slaves. However, Jackdaw simply told me off and shut his door; he is as stubborn as he is damfool.

While the crew displayed their aptitude for arrant vacancy—hopping around and letting the slaves roam as if free—I remained harsh and proper around the bleeders. I arose early and whipped whomever deserved it, and did not sleep until I ensured each one of them was accounted for. They feared me so much, no one dared tell our dear captain. No one but one…

Never had I met someone as arrogant and as ostentatious as Pax in all my years of exploration. He was, unusually, a brown-haired dark elf; He had hazel-colored eyes that clashed against his coal-like skin. He wore—like most of the other drow—rags of white cloth and ripped sailor pants. His leather armor, as well as the bow and quiver on his back, hid this fact very well. He would walk proudly with Jackdaw at his side, the captain’s pet. I nicknamed him The Hyphenate as he served many purposes and did many things. All of which disturbed me so greatly, you would have thought the quantum fabric of magic itself had chewed me up and spat me back out in an intense rage.

The purposes are as follows:

He is a slave who thinks he is free, and therefore rallies his other dark friends in a hopeless cause.
He kisses up to our captain, who is too foolish to know otherwise, and therefore further pushes himself into what he believes is freedom.
Last, but not least, he doesn’t view me as one of his leaders, and thinks he has a choice in doing what I command. This really annoys me.
As much as I disliked and distrusted him, there was nothing I could do beyond watch him carefully.

The last straw came when just after returning from our trip to the Feywild, I asked the Hyphenate for some help with a project that was determined to test the reliability of life surviving within the scope of an extra-dimensional pocket. He stared intently at me and shook his head. I almost reared back in surprise; I reminded him who was the slave in this compromise. It had no effect, as he simply glared at me for what seemed like ages, until he finally proposed a fight. One that would “prove” he was free by beating me in a duel. I laughed at the thought of such a thing but I agreed with the sole condition that if I were to win, he was to die.

Night came and the duel commenced. With the help of Devil, and my dextrous talents, I finished the battle in six seconds, three of which I used to cut off the last remaining throat muscles that kept him alive. I kicked his corpse into the blue luster of the ocean, and watched it become a scarlet red. Oh! The fear in those hazel eyes delighted me—what a rush it had been. It had been, potentially, one of the best days of my life.

That is, of course, before Jackdaw and the crew found out. That, however, is a story for another entry. Alas, The Hyphenate is dead, and I’m happy to see the slaves know it. They fear me, as they should.

Well, that is it for this entry.

I shall write again soon.

See you someday, 3mbri

Cara