December 8, 1600 B.C.
Dear Journal,

We are different people. The world doesn’t know of our existence yet, but it soon will learn. My son has just awoken from a long nap; he is turning three next February. It is December now, and he’ll have his second Shinka in nine days and ten hours. So far, Shinka is his favorite holiday. It is a mix between the Human’s Christmas and their Halloween. Just like on Halloween, we dress up in costumes, and just like at Christmas we give gifts and worship our God. But the actual difference in Shinka and the Human holidays, our costumes are rituals, and we worship Agosmith, Vestonaga, and Halapheus. Agosmith is my Father, yes I know it is odd for someone to worship her father. But he is one of the Gods, so I must. I have turned seventeen today, but I’m not happy. This morn I awoke with a pain deep in my heart, as did my husband, Zachariah. We feared it was some kind of plague, but it is worse. My father Agosmith fell in love with a Human when he came to this forgotten land of Rocky Mountains and long Coast Line. My Mother, Nowanika, was from a strong tribe of people in the forgotten lands. Her tribe had legends about mystical gods, and what would happen if a Human fell in love with one. It has supposedly happened before my mother and father, back when Zeus came to the forgotten lands. A woman of Nowanika’s tribe fell in love with him, and even though she was married she still loved him. He made her happy, and that was something the tribe could not understand. Zeus didn’t Father her first born son, nor her second born daughter, but he left his marks on them when they became of age. The woman knew, deep in her heart, that her children were his. When the male turned eighteen, he felt pain in his heart and right forearm. Within days, a dark area began to form on the underneath of his forearm. And in two weeks, a black symbol had implanted itself on his arm. Two years past and no one else had become victim to the symbol, though the boy was quite alright, people still worried it would happen again. And it did, to the daughter. But hers happened more rapidly, and to her left forearm, the day she turned seventeen a symbol began to form. Hours passed and it was over half way finished. The son’s drawn out pain was tough, but bearable. The daughter had a fast transformation, but the pain, oh the pain, was excruciating and left her writhing on the dirt floor of her tent in agony. I went through the same pain this morn, my brethren went through it on their eighteenth birthdays as well. It seems that this line isn’t going to die out like Zeus’s did though. Ours will live on forever. I must go now, many hours have passed since I have rest. Detroanion will need me soon as well, good bye Journal. I may not get to write again for some while. My father is moving my mother and I, along with my brethren and my husband, to a remote location where we can grow and live in peace without the risk of being killed off like the woman and her two children before.
Sincerely,

Moctanan

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