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2nd Granite, y.11
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The fortress is quiet in these early morning hours, and in a mountainhome, that silence is as deafening as it is beautiful. The steady run of sand and the occasional click of a mechanism is the only thing audible throughout that first night I have spent asleep in my office, and indeed, the large hourglass from which this noise originates began to turn with a creak just as I have awoken. The sound of colliding wood proclaimed the new morning as that hourglass came to a halt, and sand flowing once more for yet another six-hour cycle. This day's events were nothing to look forward to, and these were my thoughts almost exclusively as I slipped into my leather dress and silk shoes, and stepped out into the dark, and dizzyingly large, empty chamber that was the primary dining hall. My mind immediately slipped into the happy memories of when I was a young girl, exploring the deep reaches of the all-familiar mountainhomes, and wishing incessantly that I would find that tauntingly beautiful blue stone, with that naive resolve all children have.
I walked briskly in the direction of the central stairwell, and descended it carefully so as not to injure myself. The air became cooler as I descended, and I wrapped my woolen cloak tighter.
Fievreux's room is among the first on the left, and knowing her, she will still be asleep at this early hour. Her husband, a thin and frail dwarf who works on stone with a slow fervor (or so I hear), walks past distraughtly with something of an ackward bow, and continues on, presumably to tend to the children Fievreux and he are raising.
I knock on the mayor's door softly, and enter to find the room well lit, and Fievreux sitting on her bed, crying. My heart sinks the moment she tells me her daughter, Bembul, has a broken knee from her fight with stoneworker Feb. Telling her about the plan will not be as simple as I had hoped, and I am afraid this is where this entry ends for the moment.
I am certain that this journal will be less complete as the year progresses, but my job will certainly be as busy as it is unclean. None might even read it.
-Overseer Flandre