Claire's journal is a folder of Notepad files on her laptop, a piece of technology about five years old, which is password protected.
1/20/16
Last night, I apparently sleepwalked. Which is weird for an insomniac. But I woke up in another damned district.
No, I didn't sleepwalk. I know it. I was headed for the Quarantine - and then, next I know, I'm in Newborough.
What?!
On my way back to Veil Towers - thank you again, Boss, for the advance - I stumbled across an arguement in a warehouse. Out of curiosity, I listened in. Something about a tome, and the inability to use force. So I ran in, past a pair of dead bodies, between the two guys, and took this...hard drive? External type, USB plug. So I plugged it into my laptop, and holy crap is there a lot on it.
A lot of...naughty pictures, and a couple clearly illegally acquired movies. Good movies - I'm not planning to delete those. A folder full of art. But then there's the gem - the file labeled "Eirene's Will." It's definitely the biggest file on the drive, for being something so simple. I have no idea what it's talking about though - half of it's written in what looks like those inkblot things. But small and the size of letters.
Someone probably knows how to read it in this maniacal city.
So, lately, I've been going to this place in the Quarantine at night. Corvidae Flats. It's an apartment building, from the look of the elevator at its center, but I really don't care about that. What I care about is the zombies and the feral humanoid beasts. They attack like you'd imagine a frenzied vampire would. All teeth and claws.
I've killed a lot of them. More zombies than feral beasts, but I admit, the blood of those ferals is something worth collecting and selling. Like, holy crap. So worth the pain of the defeats.
Every morning, around 4 AM, I start hone my sword, very carefully of course, and sheath it before showering (to get all the blood and ooze off) and getting ready for work. Then I stop by this cute little diner for breakfast before going to work. I like the diner. It's quaint, like something out of the fifties. Just like my wardrobe. I almost want to buy the place up, make it all shiny and pretty. It needs some help for sure.
Oh! Someone replied to my ad about the language. It's apparently an ancient ritual designed to prevent people from attacking with magic. This deserves more looking into.
The catacombs. What can I say about the catacombs? They're dark, dank, cold, full of crazy. Skeletal zombies. Amalgam beasts that barely fit into the corridors. I get so confused when I go down there, but the zombies there are almost as easy as the ones in quarantine.
But they're not why I'm there.
I'm there for the weapons on the ground, the parts of weapons scattered across the antiquated floor. I take these weapons and parts and remake them into beauty during the night. I'm growing in strength, faster than I would have expected, and the powers that must've lain dormant in me my whole life, though Mother must have known, are strengthening, too.
I have a special outfit I wear to use the forge, a black top and jeans and of course proper gear. I know I get strange looks, but I don't care. My bright blonde hair gets put up in a knot, and I go to work.
I have six pieces with me now. I've given them all names, until they're given or sold to the right person. Bam-Bam, Quicksilver, Snakeskin, Azazel, Rosethorn, and Scar. I never thought I'd be making a mace and a war axe. But Bam-Bam is a mace, and Scar is a war axe. The rest are blades.
I'm rambling. About forging. But do I care? No. It's a way to express myself, just like practicing form is.
