A Painter’s Diary

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Oh, how I wish I had my paints and a proper canvas with me. I yearn to paint Vale Sangora. The skies at dusk. The meadows. That mountain looming on the horizon I can see from the humble cottage I shelter in. People see a rocky formation, but I, Jacopo da Rimini, I see a wolf. A mighty beast, resting, overlooking the valley. But his head is turned towards me, watching me, as if he’s considering pouncing and catching me in his ferocious maw.

The nature of Sangora is a marvel, but its people have no artistic flair, I swear to God. I visited the biggest city of the valley, Svartrau, and although I saw a few architectural curiosities there, I realised that I’m indeed far away from the glory of Lombardy. But I can’t return to my homeland – the House of Malatesta has long arms and even longer memories.

So I will probably live out my days here, dreaming of the paintings I could’ve conjured up for the world’s awe. Or maybe one day the wolf shall indeed come alive, and that will be the end of Jacopo da Rimini.