The Calhoon

Once More, into Combat.

An entry from Razakael's journal.

Combat’s been good for me these last few days. I’m still alive, and I honestly don’t know how I feel about that, but the heat of battle has been cathartic for me. This time I’ve spent recovering from my injury has kept me below decks longer than I’d like, and the lack of time topside has been detrimental to my mood; of this I am most certain. It’s about that time though; another milestone since I’ve left the service. The days drag, the weeks crawl more slowly than a man dying of thirst in a seemingly endless desert. Every minute has the potential to turn into its own special torment, threatening to bring back another memory, whether a happy one tinged with nostalgic despair, or a horrible one that echoes on for hours. I’m thankful that my watch only keeps track of the hours, as dreading each minute would likely be the end of me. And yet, I cling to this watch like it means something. I check the time enough that it probably appears to be important to me. “Not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then…” Like I give a damn about the time; like time is what I’d be blessed to forget for a moment. It’s not the watch that I wanted.

A face etched with discipline, and a jovial (if biting) comment now and again hopefully does the trick for my comrades; I may not be the champion of the battlefield, but I still feel that my leadership amid the fray is helpful to those around me, and a good leader does not show his weaknesses to those he aims to lead. I feel that it’s the least I can do to make up for the casualties of the past, to assist this group to the best of my ability.

I’ve noted a drastic increase in my own aggressiveness lately; that will need to be reined in. I’m still coming down from the anger of my lost eye, I know that, but this crew has enough violent tendencies without my help, and bloodlust in too great an amount, I fear, may detract from my use in combat; cold, efficient, and mechanical… these are where my strengths reside during such moments; besides, anger and despair are too closely tied for me, and the last thing I need to do is find myself actively trying to die. As much as a death in battle would feel like a sweet release, to seek it is too dishonorable, and as much as I’d like to curl up in a ball and just let it end in the darkness of my cabin, there are moments of my days that I still retain the desire to keep trudging forward, so I suppose I’ll cling to those; perhaps I’m sensing something worth staying around for that I’m not yet fully aware of? Either way, this is still mostly a “curl up and die” kind of moment; I think I’ll take to searching for a strong drink to take the edge off, and hopefully I’ll be able to find peace in the view & feel of the sea again soon.



JamesLeaman Razakael

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