I killed him.
My quill almost snaps in my haste to write it down.
I turned into a mist, slipped under the door and stabbed him fourteen times with my claws. I cracked a nail on his sternum.
It was most troublesome.
He was a Nai-Elf — a mighty shaman of his tribe — come to meet with my employers. He plead his case most eloquently – the poison in the seas, the lowered birth rate of his tribe, the incalculable destruction of the natural world. The glowing tattoos in his blue skin, and the elaborate mirrored earrings and and bangles at his wrists and ankles made him savage and strange to the board — but it reminded me of home.
His breath stank of sardines and aged cheese. I hated to watch him wring his hands, so nervous and uncomfortable. My employers smiled, and laughed behind their hands at him — then nodded and said soft words. It made me angry to see this wise old elf disrespected. I rushed over as he stormed out, determined to salvage some measure of good will from the shaman – Mistress Karis’ derision and anger was a risk, but I couldn’t let him leave totally empty handed.
He was angry, but he heard me – the lines in his face softened. He thanked me for my concern, and placed both of his hands out in front of his face, in a Nai-Elf gesture of respect.
I saw his eyes casually look into the tiny mirrors at his wrist. Then widen, then dart to my face.
I whispered the word, completely surprised. He realized that I didn’t have a reflection.
The shaman left , keeping his eyes on me as his hands reached for the door. He knew what I was — which meant his fate was sealed.
I felt regret looking down at his corpse — even as I fed on his strange blood. Just a taste, our of principle.
In short order, the body was discovered , and the captain — a good, decent man himself – put the ship on lockdown, seeking the murderer. My employers were annoyed by the inconvenience, completely untouched by the shaman’s death.
I had guarded my secret for too many years to let if fall now — my sire’s commands ring in my ears as loudly today as they did a hundred years ago.
I am the spawn of Zed – the Neclord himself, and I will not fail.
There is a commotion on deck — apparently a small ship has come alongside, a group of investigators perhaps?
I sit in front of the mirror, and imagine my face — a picture held in my mind. I make the picture smile kindly, I make the wrinkles fade.
A knock at the door – I leave to go make myself helpful.
The Journals of Enton Blake, 21st of Arrowspan – 1179