The Demon of the Marshlands

Day 1; Night, Cave

I write now from a cave off of the main road leading towards the farming district. It's extremely cold and drafty, but it will have to do for now. I think there may be bats on the ceiling slightly out of sight in this darkness, but again....it really is the best I can manage at the moment. How quickly your life can shift at the most innocuous time. One day, you're a legend, the next you're sleeping in a cave after being dragged through town and nearly hung. The one day you have to meet the Lord of the East, and it's while a scarred and hooded axe-wielder is seconds away from yanking the lever that sends you into an endless dream time.

On this journey, I have often debated over whether or not it would have been more expedient for me to just die then and there. If all I felt was a quick snap of the neck, a swift rush of air, and then silence....would I have been the lucky one? I know it wasn't for my crimes, the Gods know this region isn't devoid of lowlifes.

It was for THE crime.

The one I thought was just another day in my life. The one that held the most appeal. The one that would immortalize me as the Demon of the Marshlands. Then again, enough citizens already refer to me as a Demon that I could probably be satisfied with that....but no! I just had to want the empty title. But still....that sword was a glorious bit of eye candy. It always just sat there right above the Lord's throne, its green blade constantly shimmering in the torchlight. Whenever I looked in on his meetings from my usual hiding spot in the rafters, I couldn't help but notice it calling for me. There were no latches, no casing, not even a sheath. It hung by its hilt downwards with only two small hooks supporting it, begging me to get closer. But I never got closer. I knew the consequences. I should know better....

But I did it anyway.

My plan was brilliant in hindsight. I had spent so many nights here in the rafters, I knew everybody's schedules by heart. The Lord would rise from his throne, tidy up his meeting hall a bit, instruct the guards to stand at attention until he left the room, then take his sweet, sweet time getting to the end of the hall just to test their resolve. Once he left, everyone got extremely casual; they took their helmets off, leaned against the pillars or sat at their chairs, and chatted about the goings on around town. Usually, it was some new wannabe criminal they caught rifling through someone's pocket or in the lockbox of someone's shop. Amateurs. All of them. No wonder my status was quite literally legendary: I was the only one smart enough to pull off a half decent heist.

Of course, being a legend has its drawbacks. I could never show myself around normally anymore. My complexion was the main dealbreaker. In case the corpse this journal is found on is incomprehensibly mangled to the point of not even being able to gaze upon me....let's just say I'm already used to that. And let's also just say there is a reason my legendary name is "The Demon". Ever since I moved to the Eastern Land as a child, my body started going through an....odd transformation.

It started with my eyes. I suppose it was moving from the bright, arid wasteland of my hometown to the dark, misty swampland I currently reside in, but for whatever reason the pupils of my eyes started getting progressively smaller and smaller. If I were to look in a mirror today, all that would stare back at me are two miniscule pinpricks in a vast yellow circular sea.

Then it was my skin. Again, adapting from a land with little to no rain or water to a place where you need to wring out your cowl every night after you take it off isn't a smooth or natural transition. My flesh got increasingly wrinkled and started sporting some quite interesting markings: Along the bridge of my nose is a stretch of brown squares, trailing up to my dark hairline. Altogether, I resemble a particularly pretty lizard, if I do say so myself. That is, if you can get past all of that (which nobody has been able to accomplish to this day).