It is done. I have written down the dastardly prophecy- for that is what I believe it to be- and I have kept it. It seemed too important to burn like the others. What is so tragic is that the poem, which I have named Red Teardrops, may have sealed my doom. I showed it to one of the high priestesses, and she believes the poem and I to be demonic. She has accused me of using the dark arts, of witchcraft! There is to be a private trial tomorrow at noonday. I fear for my life as well as my soul, now. Although perhaps it is best that the world is purged of me, I cannot allow it. Self preservation is human and myrian nature, after all.

As I write this, I am about to flee my church, my home, my prison out of the window that they so stupidly did not lock. I will go to an inn where hopefully I can find a hot meal and a room to stay in at least temporarily. I may be damned, but I refuse to die in this place, forgotten and hidden from the world.

Ash Sentry
Young Priestess... and Prophetess?