I haven't had the ability to write for what seems like a lifetime. This deprivation is what weighed on me the most. Not the lack of food, or the change of scenery - they wouldn't let me write anything down.

Well, at least not without them present...


I remember that day vividly. First, they let me out. Even though the hallway was still gray and drab, the new experience was a shock to my system - significantly different than usual captivity. I tried to match the rhythm of the nameless guard's footsteps as we echoed down the long corridor. I followed close behind, as if I had no choice. Cold concrete encapsulated us and seemed to cast a spell of synthetic calmness. Obedience.

we arrived at a blue door. it was an odd contrast to this concrete maze. As I went through the doorway I found myself in another typical gray Dema room. The only difference was who was waiting for me.

Four of them. Three of them were unknown to me, but one was clearly Keons. I knew his voice

They proposed an idea. a television show - or whatever it was. I had no idea that I was known outside of my cell, but they informed me that I had garnered notoriety for my schemes and outbursts. They wanted to use my face for the benefit of the city. They handed me a pen - a familiar instrument. yet they must be present when I use it.

They wanted to manage my imagination and vision. although shackled, at least I could create again.

Thus began the sessions.

Everyday my cell door would open. I followed the guard down the familiar hall, through the blue door, to sit down at the desk and chair.

My designated creative space - perfectly centered under their watchful eye. Sometimes three, sometimes eight - not once were all nine present. He was never there. I would have felt it if he was.

At the end of the session, Keons would take my pen, gather my writings and send me back. This went on for months

What were we creating? I wasn't sure. A variety show with songs and set pieces? Were the rulers of this stifled city actually attempting entertainment for its people?

Everything I created had to be "for the benefit of the citizens of Dema" - a phrase I heard often. I didn't question them - I was happy to be out of my cell - and putting words to paper.

On the final day, after I wrote the last line, I was asked what to name it? The question caught me off guard. This seemed like a decision they would make.

Show Day: They dressed me up and asked me to smile - a poor attempt at hiding my sleep deprivation. It was all so colorful, as if compensating for the grayness of the city.

It was a blur. Before I knew it, it was over, and I was back in my cell. I can only remember fragments -only blurred hallucinations of color and chaos - like a dream. The confusion of it all hangs overhead. What was it all for?

.... but it wasnt over.

I guess it went well enough for them to request more of me. I was useful to Dema, and my creativity was exploited in new forms - They wanted me to be the entertainment at the annual assemblage of the Glorified - a performance at sea for the premiere citizens of Dema.

I knew those weren't the real bishops on that ship.

I'll quicken the entry - I need to keep up with The Torchbearer.
During the performance, we were attacked by something in the water. I don't know what possessed the creature to attack, but it was odd, and felt incredibly intentional. Many lost their lives in the attack, and I was thrashed through the bitter cold water, yet somehow survived. Did this 'icy cold' preserve me? Why was I spared? I am still so cold as I write.

This place feels foreign - nothing like Trench. From the frigid sea, the air here is somehow colder than the water that surrounds it.

I have a strange feeling that this island will provide answers.

I must go.

- Clancy