Darkest Dungeon 01: Journal of Nathan Boreas

My name is Nathan Boreas. I am the first and only son of John Boreas and the heir apparent to the Boreas Estate. Though we might not be counted amongst the largest noble families or the wealthiest, our lineage is long and strong. It is my destiny to become the next Lord Boreas. Every waking moment was spent to prepare myself for that goal, both physically and mentally. After tonight’s heated discussion with my father though … I fear for a few cracks in that glorious future. Even now, his barbed insults linger like kisses on a cheek. I fought back of course, as it is expected of a young scion. But in the end, my own tongue struggled to keep up with the incessant barrage. His anger-infested words slammed home, one after another, each fueling my righteous anger. The resulting blaze eventually consumed my ability to speak with clarity and dignity.

How could the fool not see what he was doing? He desired too much, too fast. We were dabbling in matters that should not be taken lightly. Yes, we can harness it. Yes, we can use it to our advantage. But one must learn to crawl before leaping across the abyss. Careful analysis, limited experimentation, that is the way forward. As sound as my arguments are, it was all for naught. In the end, my own fury had gotten the better of me and I saw no further recourse but to storm off, away from him. Mother had tried to intervene and mediate, as she is wont to do, but the both of us brushed her wisdom aside without nay a thought.

Slamming the doors behind me did aid in bleeding away the frustration. Father always spoke fondly of his precious doors. The exquisite carvings, the fine treatment of unyielding wood… on and on he went about it. The man is a fool for squandering my rightful inheritance on these trivial material items. Real power lies with knowledge, not fancy doors or shiny baubles. But try to get that notion through his thick skull! As my cheeks burned with indignation, I raced to pack my belongings and saddle my horse. At the back of my head, logic tried to reason with me. It knew I was being rash, acting without my typical restraint. But stubbornness and a bruised ego held it at bay. And thus, I spurred my horse on and drove it through the marbled gate, into the night beyond.

I was too preoccupied to notice the telltale glows of the village lights. Nor did I see Fat Albert until my mount nearly ran him over. The heavy man barreled out of the way in the nick of time, his curses trailing on the wind as I pressed on. As I am scribbling this down, I feel a slight pang of remorse. Fat Albert wasn’t a bad man, always kind to all. Not too bright in the brain cavity, but then again, none of the simpletons that passed for citizens in Blackmoor were. Even Father Grimaldus, supposedly the representative of God on His Earth, struggled with deciphering the complex “black blots on the paper pages”. I have never put much stock in religion because of damned fools like Grimaldus. If he only knew what my father and I were up to this past year … he would have had us all burned at the stake.

How fitting then that my escape seemed to make even the Penultimate Greybeard In The Sky look down and frown on my escapades. The heavens burst open and hurled a dastardly downpour to the land of mortals, soaking me to the bone in the process. Navigating the narrow paths leading out of the moor proved a challenge on a good day. Doing it by night during a roaring deluge is something reserved for the mentally insane. The last thing I wanted was to suddenly drop, horse and all, in one of those black holes of nightmare.

As I was too far out from Blackmoor, I sought shelter underneath a rocky overhang while the sky continued to wail on me. My hands fumbled about in my soaked pack and I found my flint and tinder. The torch I snagged from the saddle bag. Once the wax was aflame, I took stock of the remaining items I brought with me. My heart sank quickly. Besides flint and tinder, I had the (now ruined) book by alchemist Nicolas Flamel, a few ingredients in sealed containers, some clammy pieces of paper, ink and a rough map of my country. All items befitting of my status as a well-off scholar, of course. Sadly, more mundane items were absent. Even the finest scholars need food to eat or gold to purchase tomes of knowledge. Not to mention that dry clothes are preferable to wet ones. It seems that I will have to return to the estate. The thought of having to grovel before my father ties a knot in my stomach, but I have no ch


Someone is approaching. And I am without arms to defend myself. Curse my folly.


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