I have settled as comfortably as one can possibly get in my bizarre capacity as prisoner turned researcher turned (though I would be loath to admit it out loud) a certain sort of grouchy uncle for this motley gathering of southern misfits. Thanks to the Inquisitor's insistent and rather inexplicable interest in my well-being, I am not required to wear shackles any longer, and the Spymaster's people actually have the decency to vanish into the background when I turn my head and try to catch them watching me. Apparently, this makes my position among the Inquisition's vanquished foes quite privileged. Disregard the slight tone of sarcasm here, my boy: I have long moved past the cursing-and-(metaphorically)-spitting-into-my-captors'-faces stage. At times, I even almost feel content.
I still miss you, of course. You, and your mother. I always will. I know it does not paint the most favourable picture of my sanity, writing journal entries in form of letters to someone who will ne