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NOTEBOOK ABOUT VISITS FROM FARRYN (FOUND EARLY IN THE GAME)

Updated to Months not Years.

Private Journal — A——

Some Five Months Prior to campaign

Location: Arcadia → Sigil (Return Week)

Marked: Personal. Not for Filing.

 

Day One

I returned from lecture rotation in Arcadia to find a girl asleep on my sofa.

This sentence should trouble me more than it currently does.

I'll record this because it's very anomalous.

 

She was cold when I woke her. Not shivering — just cold to the touch, like she’d been somewhere windless for too long.

 

She did not apologize.

She asked if I had tea.

She is unkept. Hair tangled. Boots muddy. Notes scattered from her bag across my floor like startled birds.

She said, “Oh good, this is the right apartment.”

As though that explains anything.

I should report this.

Instead I made tea.

 

Day Two

She remains.

I asked how she entered my warded door.

She smiled and said, “Doors are suggestions.”

My locks are not suggestions. I rechecked the sigils. They are intact.

Farryn rearranged my bookshelves today “because they looked bored.” She alphabetized nothing. Instead she grouped them by “mood.” My treatise on planar trade routes now sits beside a children’s bestiary and a banned essay on elemental philosophy.

I am deeply uncomfortable. Why? I'll detail this much: She hums when she thinks. The air around her feels slightly unstable — as if probability leans toward her whims. A dropped glass did not shatter; it bent around the floor like water refusing impact. This is not Arcadian magic FYI.

This is like living in wild magic.

 

Day Three

I should report her.

She asked today what would happen if someone were “made of a mistake but decided to be kind anyway.”

I asked for clarification. She laughed and it's honestly adorable, however.

She leaves small ripples wherever she walks. My neighbor’s cracked stair repaired itself after she tripped on it. The stray cat outside my building now follows her as if sworn.

But then— A candle flared blue when she sneezed. My inkwell reversed gravity briefly.

She does not control it.

Or she does and pretends not to.

I find myself watching her rather than reading.

This is inefficient.

 

Day Four

She meditated this morning on the windowsill. She sings when she thinks I am not listening. Soft, half-remembered songs about something that hunts by scent. “Find me by breath or by bone,” she murmured.

She sang of friends she has not found yet. And of a death she intends to face. Not flee.

She mumbled about masked faces a few nights ago.

I did not ask her about any of this yet. I do not know why. Perhaps because if I asked, she would answer. And I am not certain I want that responsibility. I'll tolerate this only 3 more days.

 

Day Five

She reorganized my kitchen by color.

I cannot find anything.

She told me I am “too straight in the spine.”

She lies on the floor staring at the ceiling as if the plaster contains secrets.

I asked directly today: “Are you in danger?”

She shrugged and said, “Only eventually.”

She said it kindly. As though sparing me.

Her luck is absurd.

A loose roof tile fell from three stories above. It missed her by bending sideways midair.

A street vendor accidentally handed her a pouch containing exactly the coins she needed to pay him.

When she laughs, nearby arguments soften.

When she frowns, the wind misbehaves.

She is not balanced.

She is not lawful.

She is not safe.

I like her immensely. I don't understand why though and that's concerning/

 

Day Six

I have not reported her.

She calls me “Anchor.”

I do not know if that is affectionate or diagnostic.

She asked why I became what I am.

I gave her a rehearsed answer about order and preservation.

She said, “You’d be very good at unmaking something terrible.”

I do not know why that unsettled me.

Tonight she sang again.

The hunting song.

She mentioned scent.

Ash.

Wet iron.

And something that remembers her shape.

I should ask her who hunts her.

I did not.

 

Day Seven

She is gone.

No note.

No disruption.

The apartment is orderly again — except for one book out of place.

A slim volume on planar anomalies.

Inside it, pressed between pages, is a feather that smells faintly of rain.

She left before dawn.

The wards did not trigger.

I suspect she was under something — a spell, a binding, pursuit.

She would not tell me.

I did not insist.

Why was she here?

Why my apartment?

Why me?

If she is hunted, I was either shelter.

Or rehearsal.

Or coincidence.

I do not believe in coincidence.

I miss her.

I did not report her.

And now there is nothing to report.

Except that for one week, probability bent around a girl who sang about her own hunter — and chose my sofa as refuge.

Why me?

NEXT VISIT (MORE RECENT BUT STILL A FEW YEARS AGO) 

Private Notebook — A——

Three Months After Initial Incident

Marked: Personal. Seal Unapplied.

 

Entry: Day One

She returned.

No warning. No ripple of accident this time.

She knocked.

That alone told me something had changed.

When I opened the door she was warm — not metaphorically. Radiant. Like someone who has stood too near a summer sun. Her presence pressed the air outward instead of bending it.

Her movements are different now.

She either moves too quickly to track — crossing the room between blinks —

or she becomes utterly still.

Not distracted still.

Not idle still.

Waiting still.

Predatory or prey, I cannot determine.

She looks older without aging. Focused. Intentional.

This is not the girl who wandered into my apartment by probability.

This is someone who chose it.

She said:

“I remembered this place.”

Remembered.

Not stumbled.

She informed me immediately:

“I can’t tell you anything without putting us both in danger. But I need three days. I’ll answer one question a day.”

Terms. Boundaries.

No chaos this time.

I agreed.

I did not ask how she found me.

I suspect the answer is not linear.

 

Question One

I asked:

“What are you?”

She did not hesitate.

“I’m not allowed to be that here.”

That is not an answer.

I pressed nothing.

She watched me carefully before continuing.

“Sigil rejects gods. You know that. So I am not one.”

Pause.

“But something of me is older than I’m supposed to be.”

The candlelight bent toward her.

Not violently.

Reverently.

“If something wakes in a place that does not permit waking, it fractures. It wears names. It pretends.”

Avatars.

Fragments.

Possibility rather than declaration.

She smiled faintly.

“Don’t write that word down.”

I wrote it anyway.

She did not stop me.

 

Entry: Day Two

She slept against the far wall, fully clothed, blade within reach.

There is a scar at her collarbone I do not recall.

She hums the same song as before.

But now it has verses.

Today she is restless. Moves too fast. Checks windows. Checks mirrors.

I asked my second question:

“What hunts you?”

She did not look surprised.

“The Pale Devourer.”

The air cooled when she said it.

“It hunts awakenings. Not bodies. Not souls. Potential.”

She tapped her sternum lightly.

“When something begins to remember what it is, the Devourer smells it.”

By scent.

As in the song.

She nodded.

“It eats gods before they are gods. It consumes futures before they solidify.”

That explains the stillness.

She becomes motionless when it passes near.

She explained:

“If I move at the wrong time, it finds the thread.”

Thread.

Timeline?

She will not clarify further.

I asked if it can enter Sigil.

She looked at me for a very long time.

“It can’t stay.”

Which is not the same as can’t enter.

 

Entry: Day Three

She is calmer.

Too calm.

Like someone who has calculated survival and accepted the margins.

She stood by my window this morning and watched nothing for nearly an hour.

Then she said:

“Ask the right question.”

The right one.

Not the curious one.

Not the fearful one.

The right one.

I asked:

“Why me?”

She closed her eyes.

For a moment the room felt impossibly large.

Like standing inside a cathedral that does not exist yet.

“Because one day you’ll be at the casino.”

My throat tightened.

“You’ll think you’re there for her.”

Her.

Not me.

Maryn’bl.

“You’ll lose something important. On purpose, though you won’t understand why.”

I began to speak — she raised a hand.

“You have to. It frees someone who has to walk out.”

She would not say who.

“If you win, something worse stays.”

Probability again.

But intentional this time.

Not accident.

She stepped closer.

“You don’t get to know everything. That’s the cost of helping.”

I asked if this was prophecy.

She shook her head.

“It’s memory.”

Memory of what has not yet happened.

Which means—

She is not merely hunted.

She is moving through time to avoid being consumed before she stabilizes.

The Pale Devourer hunts awakening divinity.

And she is something that cannot fully wake in Sigil.

She chose my apartment twice.

Once by accident.

Once strategically.

She is not hiding from me.

She is anchoring.

 

Final Notation — End of Third Day

She left before dawn again.

But this time she touched the doorframe before stepping through.

Deliberate.

Grounding.

She did not say goodbye.

Only:

“You’ll be exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

I do not like the implication that my life is placement.

If she is what I suspect—

Then she is not merely hunted.

She is dividing herself across time to survive.

And I am one of her fixed points.

The Pale Devourer hunts awakenings.

She is not fully awake.

Not yet.

If she ever is—

Sigil will not allow it.

And something ancient will come to eat her.

I do not know whether I am protecting her.

Or preserving the moment she becomes visible.

I do know this:

If I am meant to lose—

Then it will not be by accident.