CalomelMay 05, 2014May 05, 2014 at 04:22 PM
#1
"Get lost, Wolf."
"Smells like a wolf in here."
"Filthy dog. You should be put down."
"Leave, Wolf."
John sat high upon the massive roots of Elden Root, the rough path of living tree wide enough that a wagon could have rolled it's way up here with no problem. In his fingers he rolled a heavy green seed; that of a graht oak, gifted by a graht oak.
A month ago, he'd have called anyone a fool who believed in sentient trees. Even Delgar. Today, he stared at the seed in his palm and contemplated the path and the name he had chosen for Brackenleaf. Wolf.
It had little to do with his affliction. The curse that existed always in the back of his mind. The instincts that he wrestled into submission every single day. Did they think he existed this way by choice? That he reveled in it and never once sought a cure? Ignorant fools. If he could, he would go back and change it. It was why he sneered at those who simply could not control themselves, succumbing to their fury or groveling for a little blood; they were weak-willed.
No, the name he chose for himself was that of his totem. He had even had it tattoo'd on his forearm, along with that of his lover. 'A wolf calls and the pack responds. The way of the wolf is that of cooperation,' the wolf-master of the Briars had said. The thought of having a pack and a home had been appealing. He pocketed the seed and thought about the Company he had found. Not the most welcoming bunch, but he never expected a welcome-wagon. "Tell us about yourself," the letter said. It lay on the bark next to him, kept from fluttering away in an errant breeze by the heavy hilt of his greatsword. John fished out a charcoal pencil and picked up the letter, flipping it over. Then he began to write.
"I was born in the Imperial city to a moderately successful whore named Rose. My given name is John, an attempt at ironic humor on mother's part. When I asked her as a child, she would tell me I was named after my father. Being a bastard, my surname was Rosson. Rose's Son.
My childhood was less than pleasant, and personal. Suffice it to say that I learned more about the vulgarities of men and mer before the age of majority than most know in their lifetimes. It set me up for a path that transitioned easily from the whorehouse to the underbelly of Cyrodillic trade. I delivered packages, ran errands, collected coin from those being extorted and from junkies looking for another hit, learned to brawl and guarded supplies. Average and mindless thug work that made me believe I had control over my own life. I was wrong.
I became involved in the slave trade as a breaker. Sorting freshly captured slaves, enforcing rules, caring for the basic needs of the captured while they awaited sale. It's there that I met Delgar. A ranger who was being processed as a slave, he was badly beaten yet refused to admit defeat. In time, he made me realize I needed to get out. I let him go, and we escaped together."
John tapped the page with the pencil, leaving a series of small dots on the paper as he thought about what to write next. Bending to the task, the pencil scribbled and scratched along the page.
"We made it out of the city, but not out of Cyrodil before disaster struck. I picked up work in an outlying town as a guard. I was on patrol one night when I saw someone skulking about on the edge of town, near the forge. I confronted the stranger, and before I knew what was happening I had been mauled half to death by a werewolf. I don't know why it left me alive, or why it ran. I am lucky to be alive.
I was ignorant. I knew I had been infected, and foolishly thought that I would be killed if anyone found out. I didn't know a cure was possible. As soon as I was able, I ran. I ran as far as I could get from people. I didn't want to die, and I was terrified of killing someone. My foolishness cost me the opportunity to be cured. When Delgar tracked me down, I had gone feral. I don't know how long it was exactly, but I do know there is almost a year of my life I do not remember clearly. Before he was able to save my humanity, the disease had set in permanently, changing me forever. I fight it every day.
This is who I am."
John read and re-read the letter before rolling it up and inserting into a small scroll-tube. He would have a courier deliver it to the guildmaster Ri'sari tomorrow.
"Smells like a wolf in here."
"Filthy dog. You should be put down."
"Leave, Wolf."
John sat high upon the massive roots of Elden Root, the rough path of living tree wide enough that a wagon could have rolled it's way up here with no problem. In his fingers he rolled a heavy green seed; that of a graht oak, gifted by a graht oak.
A month ago, he'd have called anyone a fool who believed in sentient trees. Even Delgar. Today, he stared at the seed in his palm and contemplated the path and the name he had chosen for Brackenleaf. Wolf.
It had little to do with his affliction. The curse that existed always in the back of his mind. The instincts that he wrestled into submission every single day. Did they think he existed this way by choice? That he reveled in it and never once sought a cure? Ignorant fools. If he could, he would go back and change it. It was why he sneered at those who simply could not control themselves, succumbing to their fury or groveling for a little blood; they were weak-willed.
No, the name he chose for himself was that of his totem. He had even had it tattoo'd on his forearm, along with that of his lover. 'A wolf calls and the pack responds. The way of the wolf is that of cooperation,' the wolf-master of the Briars had said. The thought of having a pack and a home had been appealing. He pocketed the seed and thought about the Company he had found. Not the most welcoming bunch, but he never expected a welcome-wagon. "Tell us about yourself," the letter said. It lay on the bark next to him, kept from fluttering away in an errant breeze by the heavy hilt of his greatsword. John fished out a charcoal pencil and picked up the letter, flipping it over. Then he began to write.
"I was born in the Imperial city to a moderately successful whore named Rose. My given name is John, an attempt at ironic humor on mother's part. When I asked her as a child, she would tell me I was named after my father. Being a bastard, my surname was Rosson. Rose's Son.
My childhood was less than pleasant, and personal. Suffice it to say that I learned more about the vulgarities of men and mer before the age of majority than most know in their lifetimes. It set me up for a path that transitioned easily from the whorehouse to the underbelly of Cyrodillic trade. I delivered packages, ran errands, collected coin from those being extorted and from junkies looking for another hit, learned to brawl and guarded supplies. Average and mindless thug work that made me believe I had control over my own life. I was wrong.
I became involved in the slave trade as a breaker. Sorting freshly captured slaves, enforcing rules, caring for the basic needs of the captured while they awaited sale. It's there that I met Delgar. A ranger who was being processed as a slave, he was badly beaten yet refused to admit defeat. In time, he made me realize I needed to get out. I let him go, and we escaped together."
John tapped the page with the pencil, leaving a series of small dots on the paper as he thought about what to write next. Bending to the task, the pencil scribbled and scratched along the page.
"We made it out of the city, but not out of Cyrodil before disaster struck. I picked up work in an outlying town as a guard. I was on patrol one night when I saw someone skulking about on the edge of town, near the forge. I confronted the stranger, and before I knew what was happening I had been mauled half to death by a werewolf. I don't know why it left me alive, or why it ran. I am lucky to be alive.
I was ignorant. I knew I had been infected, and foolishly thought that I would be killed if anyone found out. I didn't know a cure was possible. As soon as I was able, I ran. I ran as far as I could get from people. I didn't want to die, and I was terrified of killing someone. My foolishness cost me the opportunity to be cured. When Delgar tracked me down, I had gone feral. I don't know how long it was exactly, but I do know there is almost a year of my life I do not remember clearly. Before he was able to save my humanity, the disease had set in permanently, changing me forever. I fight it every day.
This is who I am."
John read and re-read the letter before rolling it up and inserting into a small scroll-tube. He would have a courier deliver it to the guildmaster Ri'sari tomorrow.