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Journal of Komi Kiyazami

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Am I dead?


I walk these halls of echoing stone. No dust tracks my steps. Is this wizard's work, or does dust never fall here?


Figures stand in some rooms, human in appearance. They do not move or respond as the living would. Are they spirits? Am I the spirit, that they can not perceive?


I don't remember. I don't remember who I am. Or who I was.


The storage rooms are full of accumulated bric-a-brac. I have taken a few books, some blank sheafs of paper, some bandages and other simple supplies. The physical world, in this sense at least, still responds as I might expect, or seems to. I dislike taking them without permission, but I will beg pardon of their owner should I find such a person.


I don't know what to expect.

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Sometimes I stop, lost in thought. For a heartbeat? - an hour? - a year? I don't know. I can't tell.


Sometimes I dream. I don't remember them clearly. Something blue - purest cerulean, the sky I think. Also a sense of protection, like a shield. But even these vague impressions were fleeting, I can not recall them now, only the memory of what I recalled upon waking.


I found a hall with rows of combat dummies. It was eerie, to be the only one standing in what should be a room full of warriors training, to listen, and hear nothing save my own breath.


I struck at one half-heartedly, on mere impulse, and then another strike, and a kick, by reflex. I did not know I had these skills. I lost myself in the rhythm for a time. It helped. I didn't realize I was so tense, until afterward, and I was calmer.

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