Perception is a rather complicated subject when one takes the time to truly consider it. What is true? What is real? Is reality a matter of the object itself or how it is perceived by others? If a chair is red, but everyone perceives it to be a green chair, is that wrong and the chair is still red? Is it correct instead to say that the chair is green since those perceiving it will concur? Does it even matter what color it is, as long as there can be a majority agreement regarding what color it is perceived as? Just a bit of contemplating I have been doing to pass the time and to help ease my thoughts on a rather difficult scenario that fully came to my attention here in Songring after I first started this entry last week.

I will say that it started with the Autumn arrivals, and it has been something that I have overlooked until now. My excitement to get our silver production into works blinded me to a very pressing matter. One of the ponies that arrived is a mercenary by the name of Flinch. This is an acquired name of course, as it was not what his parents named him, but it’s just what he has adopted to be called due to a nervous tick that he had developed. It was harmless from what we could tell, simply startling when he randomly lurches his head forward and chomps his teeth closed loudly. It turns out that on a job back in the year 1212, he sustained an injury to the head and has since had this tick. I do not have any medical records of specifics as to what happened, but I just dismissed it as an old wound with unfortunate lasting effects, and left it at that.

Flinch is also a glassmaker, so it was not very shocking when he came to me one day to ask me if I could construct him a glass furnace and get him some sand to get started on a project. The last time I had such a request, I received a gift: The statuette of myself and the seven settlers of Songring, which I still have on a new shelf above my desk in my office. I wondered if this perhaps was a similar bout of inspiration he was having and I was happy to try to oblige his request. I personally had no knowledge of how to construct a glass furnace, but I told him that our resident architect would be by to see him within the next couple of days when she was not too busy to help him.

Blueprint was booked that day, so it would have to wait until the next. He visited me that day as well actually, and asked me if I could help him make a glass furnace. I told him that I was working on it, and that Blueprint had already been alerted of his request. This seemed to confuse the pegasus, as he looked around and watched me with some distrust. "Already on it?" He asked me, uncomfortable then. "How did you know?"

"You told me yesterday, Flinch. Blueprint was too busy then, so she will be helping you today. Is there a problem with that?"

He shook his head at me and vacated my office at that time. I just assumed that meant he might be a bubbly individual or perhaps just forgetful. My concern was only peaked when Blueprint left out the next morning to meet with the chestnut-colored pegasus to continue work on his furnace, and he wandered into my office a couple of hours later to ask if I could help him in obtaining a glass furnace once more. "I'm a glassmaker, and I just kinda have this idea I really want to work on. Can you help me?"

"Uhm... Flinch, Blueprint is already waiting for you at the room we designated for you to use as your studio."

Once again he looked at me with confusion as I told him that it was already in the works. "Waiting for me? How did you know that I was going to be asking about this?" There was an air of distrust this time as well when he asked, eying me cautiously.

"You asked me for help yesterday, Flinch. Don't you remember?"

"No... I didn't."

"Yes, you did. Twice now, actually."

"What? How is that possible?" he asked me, seeming to become panicked as he backed up to the door and glanced around uncomfortably.

Warily, I set down the schematics I had been drawing up and regarded him with concern. "Flinch... what day is it?"

"It's... it's Wednesday. I just had this idea yesterday that I really wanted to work on, so I thought I'd come ask for your help today."

Clearing my throat, I regretfully informed him, "Today is Friday, Flinch. Are you feeling alright?"

He simply nodded and said that he probably just got his days mixed up and thanked me for my time. Retreating from my office, he went on his way to the room where Blueprint was waiting for him, and I went back to my schematics. I could only assume that this had to do with his injury and perhaps it was leading to some acute forgetfulness at this time. It could be that stress was leaving him unaware of his surroundings; moving to a new home can be quite taxing on an individual, and I could believe it might cause a mild case of delirium to act up.

When he came to me again even after the furnace was completed, I started to do a bit of personal research on the issue. He was panicked during that last meeting of ours, and grew a bit hysterical when I insisted that he had already asked three times. He was positive that this was the first he had even thought of this grand idea of his or asked for my help with a furnace. Peculiarly, he told me it was Friday when I asked him. He told me to stop watching him as he left, and I noticed his tick acted up rather frequently during our meeting. Most likely from the stress of his mild hysteria, I thought.

Daggersides happens to be the only pony here that knows anything about Flinch from personal history, so I was forced to contact her for some information. The meeting was strained, as she was still upset with me regarding her tarnished reputation (It still very much feels like a situation of her vs. us). I once again apologized to her and let her know that I did not feel she was a quitter, and after promising that I would do what I could to change Bullion's mind as well, she was willing to help me out over a cup of cider at the dining hall.

It turns out that Daggersides was also hired onto the same expedition that Flinch was when he received his injury. They were working with a geological survey organization as hired guards, protecting the geologists while they took measurements of various kinds in the northern portions of The Armored Poem (another province of Equestria). During the occupation, there was a manticore attack on the group, and in an unfortunate turn of events, Flinch was stung in the head by one of the creatures. I am not sure how closely these manticore relate to the ones I am familiar with from my Chimeras and Caverns bestiary (which I do have saved on the hard storage of my CCMI), but the term "Stung" indicates to me that he was poisoned. Most venoms that I am familiar with cause necrosis of affected tissues, and while it may be reversible with antidotes in most cases, some damage cannot be easily repaired. Nerve cells and brain cells happen to be two good examples, which would explain why he had a permanent tick following this injury if the venom had damaged or destroyed tissues of the upper spine and cranium.

"Do you know if it was progressive, or if he received treatment for it?" I asked her, watching her throw back gulp after gulp of the cider heartily.

"Look, Prodder, I know you think I might actually care and all, but a job is a job, and that means that coworkers are just coworkers too. I never got to know Flinch; once they carted him off on a stretcher to some sort of medical facility, I never heard from him again. I'm also not a doctor, I'm a fighter, so you're kinda asking a potter how to make taffy with these questions." she responded, shrugging at me as there seemed to be little else she could tell me.

"Some potters might be very talented at taffy pulling, so I can always hope."

"Yeah, well stop asking me how to pull taffy 'cause you're just going to have to do it yourself."

I wanted to make a quip about how it was most often a “do it yourself” scenario, but I figured that I am a class above that sort of humor, so I thanked her for her time and information instead. There seemed to be no real substantial answers, only a few more bits and pieces to toss into the pile of assorted facts I had about the cryptic pegasus. Overall, it was just confusing.

After that time, I stopped receiving requests from Flinch for a glass furnace to be constructed. It must have solidified in his mind that it was now available, and he went to it each day instead. I had assumed him to be at work, letting my mind return to important factors such as supervising the smelting, drawing up the schematics for a bathhouse I hope to construct in the future, or laying down plans for new buildings in Songring as well as upgrades to our existing structures. Finally, it was brought to my attention that he had been waiting at the furnace each day (all day to be precise) with absolutely no progress on this project of his.

I had to confront him in irritation, as I could have used his help with quite a few actual projects in the works, such as finishing up the roofing on the dining hall (which is now completed). I originally wished to ask him why he had been sitting alone in the studio room for days without any progress. Before I could say anything, however, he looked to me and said, "Good! You're here with the sand, right?"

"Pardon? I don't have any sand with me."

Giving a loud groan of aggravation, his tick went off before he could swear loudly about the situation. "You were supposed to bring the sand! They said you were working on getting me some sand to work with."

"Flinch, who are “they” that you are referring to? I may need to have a word with them, as I have not been informed that I was supposed to be collecting sand."

Flinch got very quiet for a moment, glancing around the room in search of something. With an opening of his front legs, he shrugged, speaking as if I was persecuting him. "The ponies! They told me you were going to get me some sand."

"Which ponies?"

"Yeah, the ponies."

"Which ones? I need their names, or if you aren't familiar with them, you can just tell me what they look like and I'll have a word with them. I need to make sure they understand how important it is to relay such information back to me."

"They just told me, alright!" He raised his voice, his tick going off once more and interrupting his next sentence to me, causing him to turn away and try taking a few deep breaths to calm himself so the convulsions would subside. "Look, just... forget about it, fine, I just need sand. Can you do that or not? It's real important."

I tried to appease the request by taking what sand we could locate at the river bank and putting it in a bag for him, but when we brought it, he said it was too wet and he needed dry sand. We attempted again the next day with the sand further up the bank so that it was dryer, yet he insisted that the sand was too damp. We let the sand dry in the sun for a couple of days, again he still stated that the sand was too wet and he could not use it. Becoming frustrated, I sent Overcast to just give him the bag of sand and tell him we got it from a desert or something so maybe we could stop this silliness. My patience had run thin with the irrational behavior of this one pony and my time that he had wasted on this need for impossibly dry sand, so I just wished it be over with. Something very shocking was brought to my attention later.

Flinch had assaulted Overcast.

As it turns out, when Overcast told him that the sand was from a desert, Flinch flew into a frenzy of shouts and screams about how we were monsters compromising his work, demons corrupting his image, and in his excitement had lashed out at Overcast with his hoof and struck him in the eye. Overcast was then run out of the studio.

This was brought to my attention when Overcast returned to my office with the bag of sand and a shiner to show from the strike, at which point I had him lie down and did what we could to assess the damage. It seems that he is going to be alright as he did not suffer a concussion from the blow, and the extent of the injury was just a black eye.

I went by myself to confront Flinch about assaulting one of the other settlers and waited in his room through the night to meet with him. When morning came, he still had not come back to his room. I found him alone in the room we had designated as his studio when I went searching, with the bag of sand still in my hand. I did not try to get his attention at first, merely watched him tend to a fire of uselessly burning wood in the furnace. It was startling every time to watch his nervous tick go off: To see his head jerk and hear the sound of his teeth gnash as he fought the momentary convulsion. They seemed to be happening more often than I remembered. "Flinch, I think we need to have a little talk."

"I need sand," he responded simply, rocking back and forth as he continued to pour his concentration on burning the wood in the furnace pointlessly. "Sand," he repeated, and continued to repeat it quietly under his breath.

"I heard you hit Overcast last time he tried to bring you a bag of sand."

"He's a liar," he told me, his teeth gnashing once again, but I wondered if it was a result of a seizure since I did not see him convulse. "He is a liar and you believe him. He didn't bring me sand."

At that, I tossed the bag to him and saw the soft tan grains pour out onto the floor from the open sack. "That looks like sand to me. It's also what he brought you."

"That's not sand. It's too wet to be sand. It's clay," he muttered, pushing the bag away from him with his hoof adamantly.

"It's not wet. It's had over half a week to dry in the sun. That is sand, or the closest we can get to it. It should work just fine," I told him, folding my arms as I watched the creature brood.

"It's too wet," he repeated to me, prodding the fire irritably, "It's clay."

"Just try to use it. I bet it'll work."

"It's clay."

"No it's not. It's sand, Flinch; just use it."

"It's not sand! It's too wet! It will only make clay!" He started to raise his voice at me, his throes becoming more and more frequent as I watched.

"It's sand!" I called back. "Just put it in the damn furnace and get over it! I've had enough of your problematic bullshit!"

With that, Flinch ripped the poker out of the furnace angrily with his mouth and snatched up the bag to fling it about furiously before bashing it against the side of the furnace with enough force to rupture it and send the sand exploding in all directions. "It's too wet!" He screamed at me as loud as he could, determined to make me understand as he stood up and stomped about in a pacing motion. "It's clay! It's too wet!" As he continued to repeat these words in frantic screams, he held his head in his hooves, doing his best to keep himself standing with flaps of his wings and wander about. I watched silently, with as much of an expressionless face as I could while he continued to shout and scream, his words eventually devolving into just bellows and enraged shouts as he kicked sand about furiously and tossed still-burning logs from the fire around the small room. I had momentarily feared he might hurl one at me.

It took a while for him to calm down enough to merely give deep, heaving breaths of frustration, and set himself back at the furnace to prod the embers with the poker, only saying to me, "I need sand."

"That was sand,” I once again told him, folding my arms again as I struggled to understand what might be going through this pegasus' head.

The look he gave me when he turned his head is one that I have used as a basis for rationalizing quite a few of my decisions following this event. It was one of pure hate like I have never seen directed at me before. I felt my hair stand on end when he gave me that stare, and uttered the words, "You're a liar," to me in a growl. "It's too wet. You're a liar."

"I still need to talk to you about Overcast. You hit him, and that's not something I can let slide."

"He's a liar. You're a liar."

"He isn't a liar: I am. I told him to tell you that it was sand. I told him that because it is sand. You're just being unreasonable."

"You're a liar," he repeated to me, before following it up with some cryptic thought pattern. "Monsters lie. Monsters cheat. Monsters lie. Monsters cheat." He repeated this cadence several times before I heard the growled statement "I hate monsters," at the end as he shot a glance back towards me. "You're a liar," he repeated once again, rationalizing something to himself that made me shudder in discomfort.

With that I was forced to retreat from the room and head back to my office. Dawnstar asked me what happened, and when I told her, she seemed mortified. She could not believe it was true, repeating my own thoughts that this just made no sense. It was like some sort of insensible dream, except someone else was trying to explain it to me.

What could I do about it? I didn't know. There seemed to be no options available. I was left to ponder new reasons for his irrational behavior. Is it possible the necrosis has spread? Or has something else triggered this episode? Either way, I had the feeling that his delirium might have progressed into some stage of psychosis. I am not a psychologist by any means, however, and the now frightening lack of medical staff at Songring means we have no professional opinion on the matter.

I was left with the decision of how to handle this situation. My first order was to simply ignore him: Perhaps with time, he would recover. Maybe it was simply stress based, and his arrival here in Songring was just a trying time. We could hope that as he grew used to the surroundings, he might calm down and return to some semblance of rationality. A couple of weeks passed slowly as I continued to hear reports of ponies expressing their concerns about hearing him ask them for sand each time they had to pass by his studio to do their duties. I personally heard him chanting to himself in the night from within the room. It was not a religious chant, just some phrase he was repeating to himself. I still left the order in place to simply ignore it, but removed the door from the lead storeroom and had it instead placed on the entrance to the glass furnace room that he perpetually spent his time in. This was to help ease the minds of the other ponies so they could no longer hear his ramblings to himself through the thick stone slab, but it also caused me a bit of unrest, as I then had no way of knowing what he was up to in there without entering myself.

Plans had to change, however. Earlier this week, Teardrop was brought to my office with a blanket draped over her, and Springfield coddling her gently with a deep cooing voice. The little aqua colored pony shivered and gave a fearful whine through her nose, prompting me to stand up from my chair immediately. Before I could ask what had happened and if she was alright, Salmon and Dawnstar both entered my office, he with a stern set to his brow and the latter with an uncertain and indecisive look about her. "Benjamen, there's been an incident," Salmon told me, motioning for me to take my seat once more.

"What happened?" I asked, refusing to sit down at my desk yet as I went to circle around it and approach Teardrop. She shied away from me as I got closer and screwed her eyes shut.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to do it. I'm sorry. I just wanted to help..." she pleaded, afraid of me as I kneeled down and reached my hand towards her. Springfield stopped me with a hoof gently, shaking his head. It seemed my presence was only upsetting her. I tried to ask her what had happened and what was wrong, but she just gave a wrenching sob when she tried to tell me.

Springfield whispered to her that it would be alright, and that I was not going to be upset with her for what happened. As she tried to calm down again, he started to remove the blanket and told her that I was just concerned and wanted to know what was wrong. It seemed to relax her enough that she let him unwrap the blanket from around her for me to view the situation.

On Teardrop's abdomen was a long, black mark of soot and what I could gather to be singed fur from the faint smell still present. At the fartherest end of the mark was a circular splotch of more black coloration that oozed a dark red fluid down her pelt: Blood. The black circular mark was an open wound where something had pierced her hide, and from what I could tell, was hot enough that it almost fully cauterized the wound during the time of injury.

"It was an accident..." She whimpered, shifting back into the blanket as she tried to move away from my gaze, “I didn't mean to do it, it was just an accident."

"It's alright, accidents happen," I comforted her, standing up as I looked to Springfield and requested that he go ahead and let her cover up again so she would feel less exposed. "You can go ahead and tell me what happened, Teardrop. I'll fix whatever went wrong, I promise." I had assumed that she might have stumbled through the smelting room and gotten injured on some of the instruments there, or perhaps another clumsy circumstance led to her injury.

That only seemed to upset her more and cause her to bury her face in the blanket to try and control her weeping. While I sat there with a puzzled expression, Salmon gathered my attention with his hoof and cleared his throat harshly while his brow still set low. "It was not an accident." He then informed me of what truly happened.

Flinch had attacked her. Out of concern for not seeing him for the past few days, she had prepared him a meal. When she went to take it to him, he would not respond to her until she got close enough to touch his shoulder and ask him if he was alright. That is when he exploded into a frenzy and threw her away from him, pulling the hot poker from the fire beneath the furnace. In his assault, he struck her over the side with it, and the curved point had pierced her. "I don't believe any of us will accept that as a mere accident," Salmon said.

"I told him that there's nothing we can do, Mr. Prodder," Dawnstar interjected, rather wound up and fighting a stammer as she spoke. "We need to appeal to the Canterlot guard to handle this. They need to do an investigation, and... and they have to detain him so that he can stand trial, and then this can be handled to the proper extent of the law."

"What your first mate fails to realize, Benjamen," Salmon began as he bore a fierce glower at Dawnstar, "is that we are much too far from Canterlot for them to be asked to handle our problems." With that, he finally returned his gaze to me and stood at attention. "This is your ship, Captain, and it is your responsibility."

"We don't have that kind of jurisdiction, Mr. Prodder! We don't have the right to detain or punish him for something as serious as assault!" Dawnstar protested worriedly.

"We don't have a choice!" Salmon shouted back, stamping his hoof. "We have neither the time nor the influence to get your system of law to this nick of the woods! We are left to our own devices: We must provide for ourselves, we must defend ourselves, and we must bury our own dead. 'Tis the harsh truth of a life lived in the remote seas, lass. Laws lose their weight when there is nopony to enact them." Returning his sight to me, he once again stood at attention. "It's your call, Captain. What is your decision?”

Teardrop was completely inconsolable after being witness to the loud argument, her weeping distracted me as I glanced between Salmon and Dawnstar. Both of them pleaded me with their eyes: One asked for me to take this matter into my own hands, and the other requested me to let the appropriate powers handle the situation. I could not summon a statement before pushing past them as I looked to Springfield and called his name. "Can you take care of Teardrop for me? The wound needs to be cleaned and dressed, and then perhaps some bed rest will help her calm down. Do you have anything that can help ease the pain?"

"I will take care of 'er, Mr. Prodder. I can go foraging for something if I don't already have anything. I ain't a doctor, but I know a few home remedies. Just leave it to me."

"Thank you. Teardrop, just try to get some rest and stay calm. You're not in trouble, okay? You're going to be alright." With that, Springfield led her out of my office to get her cleaned and treated as best he could. This helped my office quiet down once more. With Salmon and Dawnstar still both watching me, I ignored them for a moment and went to my chair to pull my coat on and button it down the front, stowing my papers away in my desk as I prepared to leave.

"What are you going to do, Mr. Prodder?" Dawnstar asked with concern, trying to approach my side in hopes to follow me.

"Well Dawnstar... you both make valid points. We should wait for the proper authorities to handle this, but time and circumstance may not permit." I made sure my cufflinks were secure before resting my hands in my pockets to mull over a few thoughts. "I need to heed to the wishes of those higher than me, but I also need to defend my subordinates."

"It is your ship, Captain," Salmon informed me once again, "And since Songring is in full sail, you become the law."

"This isn't a boat, Salmon!" Dawnstar broke out in a short fit of shouting, "We aren't some group of sailors waiting for a peg legged naval officer to tell us what to do! We're still in the borders of the Sun of Chance; Laws exist for a reason like this, and we need to do our part to uphold them!"

"Stop," I told them, Salmon becoming quiet and still as he was about to respond to her angrily. "Dawnstar, Salmon isn't saying we're on a boat. He's saying that there's nobody around for us to answer to or to exact the law in the way you think we should let it be handled. We only get a contact from Canterlot every two seasons: How long do you think it would take for someone to arrive to detain him in accordance with the law? Just as a ship can only receive the law's protection once they reach port, Songring can only get it once we have closer connection to Canterlot."

"We can't just become vigilantes, Mr. Prodder. Laws are in place to maintain order: Without that, we may become nothing but a tribe of savages. We must maintain that order." Dawnstar took a deep breath as she stood up to me and insisted her point.

"You're right, Dawnstar. We need to maintain order, as it is the only way to ensure that everyone can stay safe. That is our concern: Maintaining order, not following laws." I saw Dawnstar's ears tuck back again, biting her lower lip as she had to consider my words. It took a few moments, but I watched her give a sigh of defeat and nod at me. "Please go tell Daggersides that I would like her to meet me outside Flinch's studio, Dawnstar. Then I would appreciate it if you would go help Springfield tend to Teardrop."

Dawnstar nodded and took a moment to straighten her visage to a dutiful expression, marching from my office with an accepting air about her. She may not be happy with my decision, but I think she understood it at least.

I had a final word with Salmon, and he told me that he wanted to come with me to handle the situation. He was angry and I could see it in his face. He wanted justice and vengeance. That is why I told him no, and asked him to merely return to his duties. I would handle this, and I had to do it with as little prejudice and as level a head as I could. Neither following emotions nor abiding by laws was my goal. I was going to simply have to preserve the order.

Daggersides met me at the studio as I had requested, and merely greeted me with a dutiful nod. Together we pressed through the doorway to find the familiar scene of the pegasus tending the fire pointlessly with a brooding scowl over his features.

"Sand," he said aloud when he heard the door open for us, turning his eyes to stare us down. To stare me down. "I need sand."

"I've come to commandeer your supplies for the safety of my settlement. You've proven to be irresponsible with these instruments and shown that you are a threat to Songring and its residents."

"You're a liar," he told me, keeping the poker wrapped in his grasp and raising it up as his breathing grew faster and louder. "Monsters lie."

"Step away from the forge and move to the corner of the room, Flinch. I've given Daggersides permission to use lethal force if you do not cooperate.”

At her name, the pegasus turned his attention to the unicorn who stood erect with a stern, stony gaze. As he locked eyes with her, I saw him squirm and rise to stand. Keeping the poker with him, he retreated to the corner of the room as instructed, but the hot instrument remained clutched in his grasp.

I took that opportunity to approach the furnace and put out the fire with a nearby bucket of water. I collected the flint and tinder that was used to light it and stowed it in my pockets, as well as removed any knives or other carving tools that we had made available for him to use when decorating the glass he had originally intended to make. Once I felt I had removed all dangerous implements, I then looked at him and told him to drop the poker and step away.

"I won't," he stated, quivering with what might have been anger or possibly fear. "You can't... I won't! Not to a monster."

"Hand it over, Flinch."

As Daggersides stepped forward to take the poker from him without my instruction, he panicked and whipped his head back and forth as a convulsion overtook him. As the sound of his teeth clamping shut echoed through the room, the poker left his grasp, and the red-hot instrument was hurled through the air.

A metal clatter resounded as Daggersides bucked it out of midair, having shifted to the side to strike it out of its intended path. It was headed towards me. When the metal rod banged off the wall and hit the ground, I went to retrieve it. The sound was easily drowned out as horrified shrieks began erupting from the pegasus, his head held in his hooves after Daggersides had made a closer approach. He cowered in the corner away from her, telling her to keep away; that he had escaped before, and that he did not want the monsters to sting him again. I called the unicorn off of him, her hoof raised up to kick him in anger for hurling his weapon at me. She heeded my order and left the pegasus there to scream in terror and hide his face and head as best as he could within the small ball he had curled himself into.

The door finally closed behind us once again so that the stone slab muffled the cries and shouts once more. I stood with my hand on the doorknob for many minutes, head low, as I was lost in the image of him shrieking in the corner, listening to him beat on the walls and call out shouts of panic and terror of the monsters and the demons that came for him. I thought I was alone then, as I rested my head on the door and I shut my eyes, trying to drown out the sounds of his fear and his anger.

"There's nothing you can do for him."

I finally picked up my head to view the speaker; Daggersides had never left my side while I silently fought a losing battle standing against the studio door.

"That's not the Flinch I remember. He's not even a pony anymore. There's nothing you can do for him. Let's just end this and go about our lives."

"How can you say that?" I asked her, astounded by the anger she showed and the deadened tone she used when referring to someone who was once her comrade. "Don't you care at all?"

"You don't make it as long as I have in my career by caring," she responded simply, standing up then and dusting her hooves in the grass. "If I feel anything at all, it's probably just that I feel bad for you." She would not clarify, merely motioned for me to put my attention back to the door. "So... How's this going to go down, Prodder?"

I didn't answer her as I simply rested my head on the stone slab door once again. Still the sound of his words seeped out of the rock very softly: Of rebuking the lies and of keeping away the monsters. He cried because his head hurt, and he just wanted to be alone for a while. He just needed sand, he said, and that the glass would save him. The glass would make him feel good again. I slipped my hand in my pocket to retrieve the key to the heavy door I leaned against. I did not bother to question it anymore, still haunted by his continuing cycle of rage, fear and despair. With a turn of the key, the solid metal bolt of the door clamped shut, and I put the key back in my pocket.

The door has not been opened since.

I fear that Daggersides knew I trembled afterwards, as she certainly felt it when she put one of her front legs around the back of my shoulders and gently guided me with her. The burgundy unicorn led me away from the room, taking me back to the dining hall, her features displaying a deadened demeanor. I felt that I must have looked the same. "I know how you feel, Ben. I couldn't look my first one in the eyes either."

Few have spoken of this situation since then, aside from my short announcement in the dining hall that the issue had been resolved and no one need worry about it any longer. They know what happened though; it is impossible for them not to. Overcast has even constructed a rock tomb, and Silence has hollowed out a small crypt to be used. I never asked them to do it; I was simply told by Dawnstar that they had done it of their own volition. Salmon and Maple both have come for visits to check on me since I have rarely left my office. I know it is because they worry for me.

"This is not the first time I've seen this play out, Benjamen. Many times have I witnessed lubbers on their first voyages make the mistake of drinking sea water. Sends them right crazy, it does. Some can be helped, some cannot..... Any respectable Captain would have done the same, Benjamen. I stand with you in your decision. We all do. Please do not forget that,” Salmon told me. His words helped to let me know that I have not lost the faith of the settlers here for what I have done, but it still does not remove the weight of it from my shoulders.

Maple had little to say to me, even though she has spent a good deal of time stopping by my office to visit. Sometimes she will merely look over the engravings in my office; others, she will bring in a pitcher of cloudberry rum and try to get me to join her in a drink for some kind of holiday this time of year that I haven't the heart at this time to bother with; and sometimes, she just sits next to my chair and asks me questions about my life and my plans. No matter what her reasons are for the time she spends in here, I appreciate her company all the same.

This is just one of the many sleepless nights I've endured after my decision that day. It is part of my job to protect those who look up to me, but it is astonishing how grey the lines become when you must defend those who look up to you against one of their own. I can tell myself over and over that what I chose was the best option, and that it was what had to be done to preserve the order and peace of Songring, but those sentiments have yet to do anything for bringing peace.

If an object is red, but everyone perceives it to be green, then what color is that object?

If I am a murderer, but everyone says I am a responsible leader... then what am I truly?

I just don't know.