Mosur
What is it like to have your whole world come crashing down around you. To...open the door and let it happen. Then to be given a second chance. Most of that second chance will be spent regretting opening that door in the first place. So much so that regret may mask that second door you're standing in front of.
Too busy watching for that next door. Trying to cover up the last one to see the one you're walking through.
Are all doors bad? Is there any way of knowing before twisting the knob? Is it worth trying?
Will your world crash again? Maybe this time on you. Maybe on those closest to you. Then again maybe it's you swinging the hammer rather than just opening the door.
Too many Maybes. Those Maybes are me being too busy to see what I'm doing. What's that in my hand...
A Hammer.
Much the same as his last the journal this one was handcrafted out of sturdy material and covered in a dark red material. The spine stitching is visible and artistic in its own right, curving and curling down the spine. The black stitching stands out against the books off white to cream signatures. The shades of the page leaves varied even within the sewn signatures, as though they had not all been bleached properly.
Mosur looked over the writing on the first page of the newly crafted journal and snorted. When did he write that again and what was he thinking. This was supposed to be a new start, not echos from his last journal. He tore the first page out glancing around to see that he was alone. After seeing that was the case he watched as a beckoned flame danced devouring the page in his hand. Maybe it was just the depressing weather here in Gilneas. Merry insisted though.