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• • Diamond Log
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Morning was like every other. I woke up at dawn as usual and gathered up a few bushels of wheat for Vagabond-- he was extra enthusiastic this morning-- then fried up an egg for my sandwich. After we ate, Vagabond led the way to the beach so we could relax a bit before getting to work. I, personally, wanted to lay there forever, but you know Vaggie. He was eager to delve into the mineshaft. It was as though he could sense the diamonds deep below his little hooves.

With reluctance, we headed back to the house to round up some supplies for our travels. I always hate walking through the dense forest to get to the entrance of the mine, but it was the quickest route and I didn't want to waste any time-- Vagabond was waiting for me at the door with his iron pick in mouth.

Afternoon

The forest is unusually silent today.

Vagabond keeps glancing up at me as if he wanted to tell me something. The ambience is strange-- I'm on edge, which is extremely out of sorts for me. I have to constantly peek over my shoulder to ensure that someone (or something) isn't following me. I...

I just heard something. I can hear footsteps just up ahead and they aren't the usual melodic paces that a skeleton makes, nor are they clumsy as a zombie's. They're almost... Human... It can't be!

Vagabond noticed the rhythmic sound and darted ahead to inspect it, which relieved me-- if it was a threat, the little sheep would be running in the opposite direction. I could make out a form just ahead, a figure much like mine. This was a human! Before I could call out to greet the stranger, something hissed out a warning that sounded a lot like "run." It all happened so fast. One minute, this potential friend was strolling toward Vagabond and I, then he was flung into the bushes adjacent to the path. When we reached him, I immediately noticed all the blood cascading from his arm. This was no normal wound.

Evening

This man, Steve, is different. Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to have someone that I can communicate with, but he's awfully quiet. Despite his reserved nature, he is a fantastic writer. I'm ashamed to admit that I searched his belongings-- to find out where he came from-- and came across his journal. I couldn't resist!

He's recovering well, at least so far. Mama's Mooshroom soup always does the trick, so I have no worries. Maybe when he's better, we can discuss who he is and where he's going. I've lived here my entire life-- I think it's about time I venture out into the world. I'm sure Vagabond wouldn't complain!

Sarah