Introducing The Journal of Justice
Honoured Scholars, Reputable Donors and Learned Men of Vinheim.
I write this message with the full understanding that your faith in our work is, to be blunt, a tad more fragile than the parchment I write upon. Admittedly, I understand that our limited contribution to the arts of war or religious thoughts mean that the Scribes of Cultures Extinct and Peoples Deceased might warrant less than enthusiastic support when our fair city faces threats both within and beyond our walls.
But war cannot last forever, and we maintain our hope that there will come a day when we will be required to look at all races and cultures with eyes and hands unburdened by blood and steel. It is for that day that we prepare and it is for that day we request your looking into this journal.
As evidence of our commitment, assuming kind winds and honest couriers, please find enclosed the journal of one (1) Adventurer, who dubbed himself “Justice.” Discovered on a lonely shoreline by one of our junior scribes, we believe it to document the exploits of him and his party, presumably long lost to the hazards of that particular profession. While we in no way condone or accept the actions of this loathsome way of life, we found this journal to be a reservoir of knowledge that pertain to races, cultures, locales, gods, demons and even worlds unimaginable. Indeed, it may be the sole record of its kind.
To date, the identity of this young man remains mostly a mystery. We know little of his past, what village he came from, whether he ever wed or not, what his children might have done. We don’t even know if, when he finally bid farewell to this journal, he was alive or dead.
And perhaps he died shortly after he drew this piece, one of the few in which he ever deigns to draw himself. We can assume that he had access to paint, at least, but we’re not certain whether he owned those and painted this in the heat of the moment or was drawing some distant memory of a long forgotten companion.
But we did know his hardships. We did know that he suffered. We did know that he loved. And we did know that the woman next to him in this piece caused him no small amount of either. Perhaps this was his last memory of her. Or merely one of many.
I, for one, prefer to hope that he found a place to put down his sword. I hope this was but one thing he drew and that there were many more before he finally bid her farewell. I hope that, when it was all over, he found some measure of peace.
Please, gentlemen, I implore you to look over it at your leisure, and the accompanying notes and please, I implore you once more, to reconsider your views to our cause.
Thelo Wayabout, Senior Scholar.