Journal and Record of Sir Halcyon of House Hostem, Noble and Illustrious Dungeoneer of the Remilia F

Journal and Record of Sir Halcyon of House Hostem, Noble and Illustrious Dungeoneer of the Remilia Familia.

Last Eve of the New Harvest Season,

	Some time has passed since my last writing, and for that I apologize, but work has kept me blessedly busy. The attempted theft of Fortuna's dice is still under the process of trial, the perpetrator captured but not yet punished. The theft of a deity's treasured artifacts, even if they should be such a simple curio as her dice, is an insult that cannot go unpunished.

	The attempted murder of her followers is an issue too, of course. My heart goes out to them, whatever their names were.

	I've broken my personal record over the last week, delving to floor 32. An extraordinarily happy piece of progress, but one that sets my chest to thrum with something unlike pride, in spite of my comrade's jubilation. This is the furthest the Familia has reached historically, and Ryuji has been practically over himself in excitement. There are calls for feast and fervor still echoing in my ears, but I urge against it despite myself. A closely woven tightness has coiled in my chest, there beside the melancholy, or perhaps around it? I know not, only that for the first time in quite some time, the sight of the dark has unnerved me.

	This new record proves that I’ve grown closer to my own father's prowess. Every step is a step closer to his unmarked grave, placing the flag of my own that much further. I was not privileged with time to know him thoroughly, but I’m proud enough to say that the marks he has left in me cut deeply and curve elegantly. Although I was only allowed the better half of a decade to know him, it feels as if he’s walked beside me for thrice the number. A good man, he was. And a hard man, in both body and mind.

	I am told he was a swordsman, unlike myself. That his stature was match for a minotaur’s, and that his back had never known the fury of a beast on the chase. I’ve heard whispers that he wished for a son who could trade crushing blows as he could, but if he ever resented my magical aptitudes he hid it well. My young nanny relayed some wisdom of his to me, as she tucked me in on the day of his death; that a man who cannot hold his own sword must become twice or more than those beside him, just as a nobleman must be thrice or more the common man below him.

	There are times where I grew jealous of my sisters, who could boast greater skill at arms than I, but one cannot linger on a time that never was. There was a small, plebian piece of my physique that wished them stricken with sickness, such that I could be made mightier by compare. You could imagine my shame at that, after a manticore’s venom took our eldest, Rastia. Father had passed by then, but the family that remained tore out bloody vengeance on her behalf, futile as the dungeon’s nature may have made it. I suppose it was a selfish endeavor, then. Raging against myself as much as at the dungeon.

	I fear sometimes, that we’ve lost our path.

	Not merely my own family, nor the familia, but the city itself. It began so simply, you know, back when this place was a mere hamlet. The people, uneducated and dirty, awoke to find a hole amidst their homes and so they asked their strong and brave to find what may be inside. And they went. Some out of foolhardiness, and some drunk on expectation of glory, but just as many because they felt what only we Hostems seem to remember. The dungeon must be conquered, not because it is evil, but because it is there. And because it is there, we must reckon with it.

	I am told he was a swordsman, unlike myself. That his stature was match for a minotaur’s, and that his back had never known the fury of a beast on the chase. I’ve heard whispers that he wished for a son who could trade crushing blows as he could, but if he ever resented my magical aptitudes he hid it well. My young nanny relayed some wisdom of his to me, as she tucked me in on the day of his death; that a man who cannot hold his own sword must become twice or more than those beside him, just as a nobleman must be thrice or more the common man below him.

	There are times where I grew jealous of my sisters, who could boast greater skill at arms than I, but one cannot linger on a time that never was. There was a small, plebian piece of my physique that wished them stricken with sickness, such that I could be made mightier by compare. You could imagine my shame at that, after a manticore’s venom took our eldest, Rastia. Father had passed by then, but the family that remained tore out bloody vengeance on her behalf, futile as the dungeon’s nature may have made it. I suppose it was a selfish endeavor, then. Raging against my own soul as much as at the dungeon.

	I fear sometimes, that we’ve lost our path.

	Not merely my own family, nor the familia, but the city itself. It began so simply, you know, back when this place was a mere hamlet. The people, uneducated and dirty, awoke to find a hole amidst their homes and so they asked their strong and brave to find what may be inside. And they went. Some out of foolhardiness, and some drunk on expectation of glory, but just as many because they felt what only we Hostems seem to remember. The dungeon must be conquered, not because it is evil, but because it is there. And because it is there, we must reckon with it.

	Signed sincerely, Sir Halcyon of House Hostem, noble and Illustrious Dungeoneer of the Remilia Familia.

	I am told he was a swordsman, unlike myself. That his stature was match for a minotaur’s, and that his back had never known the fury of a beast on the chase. I’ve heard whispers that he wished for a son who could trade crushing blows as he could, but if he ever resented my magical aptitudes he hid it well. My young nanny relayed some wisdom of his to me, as she tucked me in on the day of his death; that a man who cannot hold his own sword must become twice or more than those beside him, just as a nobleman must be thrice or more the common man below him.

	There are times where I grew jealous of my sisters, who could boast greater skill at arms than I, but one cannot linger on a time that never was. There was a small, plebian piece of my physique that wished them stricken with sickness, such that I could be made mightier by compare. You could imagine my shame at that, after a manticore’s venom took our eldest, Rastia. Father had passed by then, but the family that remained tore out bloody vengeance on her behalf, futile as the dungeon’s nature may have made it. I suppose it was a selfish endeavor, then. Raging against my own soul as much as at the dungeon.

	I fear sometimes, that we’ve lost our path.

	Not merely my own family, nor the familia, but the city itself. It began so simply, you know, back when this place was a mere hamlet. The people, uneducated and dirty, awoke to find a hole amidst their homes and so they asked their strong and brave to find what may be inside. And they went. Some out of foolhardiness, and some drunk on expectation of glory, but just as many because they felt what only we Hostems seem to remember. The dungeon must be conquered, not because it is evil, but because it is there. And because it is there, we must reckon with it.