Lifiee's Memlog

At the behest of Eris, my beloved, I have been charged with writing a memlog, memory articles if you will, about my adventures as of late.

 I will be writing these memlogs in "high English" my native tongue, which the local persons call "Britlish" or "Inglingo" depending on whether or not they speak "Newlish" (a derivative of old American) or more commonly "Newspaña", a bastardised, barbaric creole of Newlish, and Texospaña. (Now thankfully, and thoroughly dead. Gone the way of "Québécoghettolingois" after the bloody war between the tyrannocratic gang state, New York, and Texas. Which despite the nuclear fallout did not change much at all. A desert full of inbred mutants it was, and to this day remains.) All things said, at least Newlish is more aesthetically pleasing than Hipsterspeak, where culturally everyone seems to want to speak before you do. Damn pseudo-hobos.

 Newlish is spoken at times in this local hold, Beacon. Where my adventures have lead me. Enough that I can get by.  Newspaña is unfortunately the local vernacular, which I only have a broken grasp of, especially the number system. I have such difficulty differentiating between "decadigits" and "unidigits". I hate doing jobs where numbers are asked for, especially with the inordinate lack of dictionaries in this bloody hold. I get by easily enough with those who still speak Newlish. Or even the really old fellows who can remember how to speak old American. Ah, but I digress. I suppose this is why Eris charged me to write articles, though she is patient, and a divine; her sweet mind would prefer that I direct my thoughts towards more media than her most excellent listening abilities.

 I wandered, as if by destiny, into Beacon a vague set of years ago. (I lost count of them, and my ageless body, sustained by the arcane mysteries of the Maelstrom, via my growing union with Eris, has given me nothing by which I can measure age, or life's seasons in passing.) And so it was that I established a small oracle service, and an augering tower to the north of Beacon's outskirts on the old, wind worn ridges of the cliffs which formerly caressed the sea, now dried up, and replaced with a vast new ecosystem of flora, and fauna which the locals call "the infinite forest". Or else, it would have been, had I, and a nameless, macabre experiment (whom I affectionately call "Mumbles") not gone off on a camping holiday one auspicious evening. Sufficed to say there was an alleged marshmallow-based mishap, according to the locals, and I became Lifiee the Treeburner. Despite this I was necessary for oracle work (psychics not connected to a cult being rare here) and so I was left to my own devices far beyond the outskirts of the tarp-walled hold. But at least Mumbles was able to fulfill his dream of camping. It was glorious fun though.

 It was yet another vague set of years later that I was given barters by a northerly hold's hold-lord, and his ambiguous operator (who was far too fluent in Newspaña I might add) to take number of the enemy combatants in the rival hold. To this very day I hope I translated the number right. Five, Fifteen, or Fifty...Bloody hell. Oh well! Hopefully this will not incur the wrath of some rogue, vendetta minded follower of the old hold-lord. That would be an odd problem... Til next time though, Memlog! I seem to have a client. Hugs, and kisses!

 -Log I, I. Lifiee.