:: From a Scribe's Journal ::

I awoke one day and found myself in Ar. I did not know how I got there, nor for how long I had been there. It is a rather tumultuous ordeal to have no recollection of things. Beyond that, I bore this nagging feeling deep inside that I had done something terrible. A lead-weight of guilt; remorse that refused to diminish. Though I could not recall what exactly had put that feeling inside of me.

I lost myself in the narcotic effects of the Kanda leaf, until it no longer sated those wicked pangs that seared my conscience. And then I turned to dabble in the refined powders manufactured from more toxic roots of the plant. Few will supply such deadly poisons as this to prospective clients. One must seek out connections in the filthiest of alleys and sewers of most cities. In Ar, you would think the Trevelyn District? Yet it was none other than the more posh Garden District in whose alley I had laid my head down and wallowed in my opiate stupor for more than a month.

The taste of vomit was a constant burn on my tongue and the back of my throat. My clothes reeked with the stench of my own urine. I do not know for how long I had been unbathed, for I lost count in the blur of days and months.

I knew not where I belonged, where my own Home Stone was, nor who my own kinsmen were.