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I've updated the Egg of Time's communicative capacities. It's beginning to come together, and I think I finally have an idea of what I'd like to do with it. I reached the summit of one of the mountains near the College today - one of the smaller ones. The journey didn't take long, but I feel refreshed and more energetic than I have in some time.
There are moments in which I must contend with the frightful creature that lives in my chest; this wounded part of me that flutters itself into panicked throes at the first sight of danger. It is a cruel thing, though it does not mean to be, and I try to treat it tenderly, but it does not rise to meet me.
What does it mean, I wonder? I find it all tends to trickle down into time. If only I had more of it.
If only my words made sense. If only I could take that wild, fluttering thing, and twist it into a shape that others would like; it is not so much that the words do not come. It's more as if the substance in them is lacking.
What do I want to say? What little etchings would I like to leave behind? The Wheel keeps turning, whether I am ready for it or not. I am not getting any younger.
How would I say it? Is it worth breathing life into? Whatever I have to say, others exist who have said it better. I was not born with the talent to tell stories; neither were they - they worked for it. And yet it all seems to come easier to them, and I am left here, silently envious - awestruck by their expert weavings.
But then again, beloved - when is the last time I've really tried?
I have been neglecting this old thing. I have stories to tell still; it's more a matter of contending with the fluctuation of life's mighty waves. They have been crashing upon me as of late.
Word to the wise, never fall in love with a Sanguinite or a Dibellan! Especially both at once!
(No, Merry, I'm not talking about Martin. He's too... reformed for me.)
I'm not sure why I'm here instead of there, but here I am, regardless. Things are, as always, tiring - but I persist in the doomed world I've created regardless.
I am occasinally fearful I may have unknowingly entered into a pact with a Daedra of some sort (not you, Beloved - I would be glad to enter into any number of pacts with you). I tend to be a downer, so here's a very brief update of what I've been doing as of late:
I'm *fairly* certain I know where the Dwemer went. At least, some of them. I stumbled upon a demiplane populated entirely by the Human races, once thriving and further technologically advanced but now decimated and marred by war. I found what I firmly believe to be remnants and artifacts of Dwemeri civilization within the possession of one "Lorenzo Cabot", a several-centuries old human who has resided in this plane his entire life. "Magicka" as we understand it seems to be incredibly limited; the only examples of something resembling the arcane arts I found originated from the aforementioned artifacts. Despite this, the land there is plagued by something incredibly similar to the Divine Blight. I have not confirmed that it is, indeed, the aftermath of the Numidium (I speak of the Walking Way more than the Tower, though they may well be one and the same).
I am still researching and exploring, but I have the foundations of a functional theory.