Ch-ch-ch-ch-chainges

Hm.

Where to start.

::stares for a while::

I do not necessarily understand why Skirt and Mads find this so, so. Um, is the right word empowering? Relieving? Fun maybe, that might be right. Maybe not, but they sure do it a lot.

Just write, she said. Start when you start, he said. No offense, but they both suck at advice in this area. ::stares:: Oh damn. He is going to read that, but if I cross it out it will ruin the page. Sorry Master!

Alright, so every story has a beginning, a genesis in something. I am not inclined to peel back too many years, and so I will start with this latest version of life. I am now owned by Zebediah Bronson. He owns Skirt too, and he loves her. They are really interesting together and both remind me of one of those snakes that tries to swallow its own tail sometimes. Or maybe that only makes sense to me.

The time at the Spa was...intriguing. I have to admit, the small matter of assassin contracts was a hurdle. Could the woman truly not have thought I would know not only what but who she was? She wore the robes of a perfumer years back but I knew what she was even then. Thankfully, the Mistress went away and the whole matter died away. Oh. Bad pun.

He is safe now, or so I tell myself. He is also gone though, and that I do not let myself think on much. The blessing and curse of a whore's mindset I suppose. I told him he was dangerous, and he did not disagree. He asked me why I did not beg his collar and I could only repeat, he is too dangerous. Fuck, he is gone anyway, I am not going to write anymore about it. There!

I knew I was in far too deep with the freelancing, and I knew that...wait. No. The past died that night. He said so. So it does not matter.

::sighs and a lengthy time passed staring again::

This is so strange. The sirik chains move with every stroke of stylus. Yes, he has me wearing one. It is an odd thing really. But fine, I mean, yeah, it is all good.

I never thought twice about writing when I wrote, but I know he will read this. And that changes everything. My words have all been born of darkness, and when standing in light as I am now, I seem to be rather speechless.

I think I will seek out the Scribe. I bet his advice might be better. I mean, he is a Scribe, they write. Eh, we'll see.