1st of Frost, Year 119
I guess… where Lethiril left was when my bell tolled. No more sticking my head into the sand, pretending not to know the cruelty of the world around me. I knew it for a while. I had been born with it, and I carried it with me. When my parents died, I felt it was a blessing. Not for me… I had been left alone, even awry of my mother’s spiteful stare, but they had gone to a place where only flowers awaited. Where Veratelle was, singing the old Elven hymns uninterrupted by the hatred of man and the corruptive power of the Court of Dusk.
But me… for me, again, it was more cruelty. It took some time to change myself in a way that suited the necessities of my life — with Leth gone I needed to become calloused, emotionally withdrawn, and physically I had to learn to hide and scurry like a rat. I needed to know how to steal and beg and be pitied - despite how disgusting I was, the urchin roaming the roads. I was lathered with dirt and grime, probably a wrong inhale from my own pervasive illness, and often hungrier and more tired than you could imagine.
But this state of being did not last long. Quickly, like many urchins released so early into the world, I was taken in by an Ebon Knight and brought to the Remedy to become theirs.
I liked it at first. Perhaps for a long time. I was made a Cleric-Squire, a junior title for us little ones as they gauged our worth. Most were severely lacking, more than I did, but they were also young and inexperienced. I had at least had my fantasies — of being the warrior and adventurer they would have liked me to be, if not on a tighter leash. I had my passion. That was what made me good. I may have been a shit, but I had bought into their dogma. I wanted to kill Dranoch, having suffered their demeaning stare for so long.
For the first six months I learned - briefly - discipline. How to collect. To control myself in the face of intense emotions, negative or otherwise, such as in experiencing the loss of a comrade in arms. Or… even seeing a Dranoch, or - most interestingly to us young boys - seeing a Huntsman’s true form.
I guess… where Lethiril left was when my bell tolled. No more sticking my head into the sand, pretending not to know the cruelty of the world around me. I knew it for a while. I had been born with it, and I carried it with me. When my parents died, I felt it was a blessing. Not for me… I had been left alone, even awry of my mother’s spiteful stare, but they had gone to a place where only flowers awaited. Where Veratelle was, singing the old Elven hymns uninterrupted by the hatred of man and the corruptive power of the Court of Dusk.
But me… for me, again, it was more cruelty. It took some time to change myself in a way that suited the necessities of my life — with Leth gone I needed to become calloused, emotionally withdrawn, and physically I had to learn to hide and scurry like a rat. I needed to know how to steal and beg and be pitied - despite how disgusting I was, the urchin roaming the roads. I was lathered with dirt and grime, probably a wrong inhale from my own pervasive illness, and often hungrier and more tired than you could imagine.
But this state of being did not last long. Quickly, like many urchins released so early into the world, I was taken in by an Ebon Knight and brought to the Remedy to become theirs.
I liked it at first. Perhaps for a long time. I was made a Cleric-Squire, a junior title for us little ones as they gauged our worth. Most were severely lacking, more than I did, but they were also young and inexperienced. I had at least had my fantasies — of being the warrior and adventurer they would have liked me to be, if not on a tighter leash. I had my passion. That was what made me good. I may have been a shit, but I had bought into their dogma. I wanted to kill Dranoch, having suffered their demeaning stare for so long.
For the first six months I learned - briefly - discipline. How to collect. To control myself in the face of intense emotions, negative or otherwise, such as in experiencing the loss of a comrade in arms. Or… even seeing a Dranoch, or - most interestingly to us young boys - seeing a Huntsman’s true form.
