Plot Hunters: Cruz’s Journal

From the journal of Cruz:

I feel ready to crawl out of my own skin. Once again I’ve hit the edge of the world and it doesn’t mean a thing. I’ve been here before. I don’t think I travelled the same road last time, but I’ve seen this place.

This has been happening more and more. I pick a direction and walk, and I end up in another town that remembers me. Granted, I’m not sure about all of them. There was a spot there about thirty years ago where my mind was gone most of the time and I could’ve been anywhere doing anything.

It’s times like these that I question why I left. I threw everything I knew away for a lost boy and what do I have to show for it? I’m withered, he’s probably dead, and the whole world is a thousand times smaller than it was when I was eighteen.

I miss my home. I met an elven traveler a few years ago, Kara, who by chance had ended up on my mountain once and saw me as a child. She joked that I hardly seemed like a goliath anymore, and I can’t say it hasn’t been haunting me.

I’m writing this on the beach. A beautiful, sunny beach that makes my old bones feel warm under my skin. If I get hungry any of the families here would be happy to share their bounty with me and lend me a bed if I decided not to sleep under the moon. Were I at home I’d have been dead of overwork before my fifties. I’d have spent my whole life trying to prove I was worth feeding.
Perhaps it’s a good thing, not being much of a goliath anymore. Maybe I was meant to break off and wander, end up on this beach. It’s a shame I can’t stay. Living is far, far too easy here. If I’m already restless now, how would I feel if these people really noticed the years I’ve gained and convinced me to settle? I’m not going to die in a room full of strangers all whispering and lamenting that I must go so soon. That’s how these smaller, weaker folk die.

I’ll spend a week here, that’s all. There must be somewhere I’ve never been and I’m going to find it. Maybe I’ll find the place where the sun never sets. I think I could happily die on my back knowing the sun would always be on my face. Let the carrion birds pick away at me until the parts of my soul left behind are bared.

The minds of old men are so macabre. I didn’t even think about dying this much when I was out on the sea scaring gold off of merchant ships, when I was short and weak and could’ve been killed by a hundred different things a day. I don’t think it was that special kind of immortality the young believe in, I just didn’t care.
I need a drink and a good party. I need to bury this fucking journal.

I just left a festival on the most beautiful beach I’ve ever visited. The sun has set, but I still feel all aglow inside.

I wandered in early this morning while they were preparing for it. I went out to swim until midday and when I came back some ruggedly handsome human invited me to join in the festivities. Making the decision was a great struggle, I assure you, but somehow I found the strength to say yes.

I’m glad I did. I haven’t been to a beach party since I was a pirate and I’d forgotten just how rowdy young people get once they’ve had the chance to dance on hot sand. I had a few dances myself but I don’t think I came anywhere near to matching that manic energy. I suppose I can understand it; the summer’s ending soon. They’ve got to trap the heat in their bones for the months where they’ll miss it.

The official reason for this little hootenanny is some pleasure god or other. I don’t know. I was in the middle of several strong drinks when my new friend told me of it and I was rather distracted by the drums I could feel in my chest.

The people seem so happy here. I used to want to live on a beach like this, partying vigorously every day without a care in the world. The dreams we dream when we are young are so… vivid. I can still picture the cottage I might have built, just a little bit strange in comparison to the ones around it because I had to have something of my old home in my new.
I can’t imagine staying in one place long enough for that anymore. Most of those revelers back there will likely never be further from home than the nearest port city, never knowing anything outside of their tiny corner of the world. There are few worse fates than being born and dying in the same village.

From dawn tomorrow I’ll head south and stop when the birds do. They always lead me to beautiful places. Granted, they’re also places no one’s ever seen a goliath before. It would be nice if my other wayward brothers and sisters could hit some hot spots before I got there to answer the questions I don’t care about.

The animals  will probably stay and wallow in the cold, but we don’t need to stand it just because we can. I guess going somewhere you might not freeze your balls off or starve in the winter just isn’t enough of a challenge. Everything has to be a challenge.

I’ll never miss that. I feel the urge to be better than others still, but I could have never survived living my whole life around that urge.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that today I’ve had a lovely time, and tomorrow I’ll have someplace to go.

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