Windy Twisty Road

Ok,. so I actually might not hate this whole journal thing.

It is a good place to sort out the day after all is said and done. Some days way less gets done than said, but others I am so busy I seem to not be aware of my own silence. The latter being, these days, far more rare. In fact I am pretty sure I could happily hold a full conversation with a tree stump if given half the chance. I am not really sure how I feel about this shift in the winds of things, but so far it is going alright I suppose.

I guess I just never figured myself as any sort of wise sage woman to a pair of barbarians I have come to call friends. I mean seriously, me? How do I even begin to help another person understand or discover what remains such a mystery to me as well? Oh not the logistics of bindings and rings and positions and so forth, that is fairly simple. But the plain fact is that I do not really know what drives the fire within me, let alone how to even start to explain it to anyone else.

I think I first realized it when Master put me to the ring last night. One part of me was fully aware of Mads' fear and Skirt's hesitation, but most of me was busy being swallowed whole by the rising tide. It is not something I can control, not exactly. The feel of his hand in my hair, the casual way he used me as an object lesson. I suppose I should hate him for it, be defensive or affronted...but I am not. I should be ashamed to have been so heated so quickly in front of them, or maybe afraid that my own display would set Mads back, but...really..if I am honest...I am not.

See, there is this, well this thing inside of me. I don't have some fancy name for it or any real experience analyzing it. Imagine, maybe, living with a serpent in your belly. Not quite right, but close. It is made of darkness and feasts on fire. Fear arouses it and slavery brings it alive. Disconnected almost wholly from head and heart, it just...is. And when it scents its' desire, well it can scare even me.

I don' t talk about it, nor do I encourage it to wake up. Nor do I want to do either, just in case you read this Master. Just sayin'.

It makes me feel a bit binary I guess, like I have another self, a shadow self. There were legends and myths in the pack of such things. Stories of how a soul gone bad can tear itself from the whole and walk alone. Not entirely sure where I went bad though. Was it the first rush of wetness while bound over the rail on the ship? The first flush of heat when thrown to the pens following a spar?

Ugh.

Seriously, does it even really matter? I am who I am and on the whole I am pretty happy with it. I am not prone to fits of soul searching and I am not wanting to start. It is there, I acknowledge it, I keep conrol over it most times and that is that. It reared its head last night, but I was able to tamp it back down and all was well, I slept without dreams. If seeing it scared the barbarians, or made them think me some mindless female trained to juice at the hint of chains, well whatever.

I have never lived an apologetic life and I do not damned well plan to start now.

Fuck this writing thing. I start one place and end up somewhere entirely different. I think I hate it again.