I am rather tired of not being taken seriously. I have come to the conclusion that my companions see me as little more than some exceptionally intelligent child. I realize that I might not know "the ways of the world" as well as some of them, but I can more than hold my own in whatever circumstance we run across. It was I, was it not, who slew the mummy in Citadel who was animating the dead around us? It was I, was it not, who kept the possessed form of Oulduma insensate until we could destroy its captor? It was I, was it not, who stood, alone among us, single-handed against Threnody, not once, but twice, and not only walked away whole, but indeed triumphed? Yet I am at best a walking encylcopaedic tome to them, and otherwise the butt of their jokes.
In particular, I weary of their jabs about my compassion for Threnody. I suppose I cannot entirely blame them for not understanding. Her heart was not revealed to them; her pain not laid bare to them. They've not heard her crying in the watches of the night, ashamed of what she is and what she must do. Kill her we may have to, for the sake of the shards, but that does not mean I have to enjoy it. And they certainly needn't mock me for this. Not when she is so beautiful, and needs our help so desperately...
I know there must be some way to reach her, to find that part of her which cries itself to sleep at night, that suffers this pain and anguish. I owe it, both to her and to my friends, to find out how to still her screaming heart, to quiet her rage and her despair.
I wonder, sometimes, if their jabs are not my punishment for my misguided treatment of humans in the past. Anything is possible, but I should have thought my own example of ignorance would have taught them better. I suppose all I can do is suffer their slights as best I can, and confine my indignance to you, my journal.
And now we've brought even more trouble down upon our heads. Lanathar is loose in New Sellador, after arriving presumably to see what the disturbance in the mithal was. After laying waste to the source of the protective field, a great tree in which was contained our portal home, our magics have returned, but Threnody will now be able to shrug off the effects of the plague, and the clerics of Aesia will before long realize that their powers have returned. I only hope that our efforts to recover our own magics do not cause more harm than good.