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5 [Year 501 Summer]










15.3 hh







Last Visit:

01-15-2021, 10:16 PM


Signos: 285 (Donate)
Total Posts: 12 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 4 (Find All Threads)

I've forgotten how to tell you of the storms on the desert, of the stars in his eyes; perhaps it is because I never knew him, perhaps it is because my mother never stayed. I remember she would tell me that I look like him, like my father, a demon made of sand and storms. "You have his eyes," she'd say when she looked into the ocean gems that never came from her. When I think back, I wonder if it made her cry, if that's why she'd leave me alone for hours. My mother never could look at me for longer than a moment.

My sister told me that my golden skin with galaxies collapsing is like the world my father destroyed. She says that I have his long back, his sturdy build. She says that I am built for destruction just like he was. So why is it that with these blue hands I only know how to build?

I think the only thing that came from my mother is the star on my face and the white up my back legs. It reaches onto my belly in the never-ending fight she'd had against my father for their love. She wasn't enough to keep him, the white of her was not enough to rule out his line breeding true into me. Does she look at me and think of him? I know our people did. I know they still do.

My sister was the only one who told me I was handsome, I was beautiful. Those words are meaningless, of course. I cannot compare to her delicate bones that are like the arching of great windows full of pale stained glass. My waving hair is not as soft as the silk of her skin like the satin tapestries my father destroyed. Countless years of history destroyed. Will I be destroyed in this mortal form just as those buildings and stone houses were? Will the desert claim me as it took back my father because I look like him?

I do not know.

I don't know.

My sister always told me I was like some distant keep, always shrouded in a fog, never fully clear around the edges. I can't tell you if she's right or wrong because I cannot see myself as she does. She was always the realist between the two of us, I was always busy reinventing the past.

Buildings, structures, design, it always interested me so much more than any single person ever could. The buildings stay, people don't. At least, most buildings stay.

Because I was always told I looked like my father, a criminal, a shaytan, no one really ever spoke to me. I remember hushed whispers when I would go to the market with mother, or to a park with my sister. The other children would not play, their parents weary that somehow his soul had gone into my own. That was always utter nonsense, garbage left to feed their fear so that the Empress could keep them under her thumb. Then, it hurt. Now... I don't think I care when they turn their backs or hiss. I don't think I care when they all leave...

Now, I don't think I care about anything other than the stories in the stones.

From a young age, when no one else would come to the temple where sister and I moved after mother left, I was taught about everything my father destroyed. I was taught to love it, to cherish it. Taking it upon myself, I pored over every tome the crypts had to offer up, coughing them out of deep, dark recesses until I had rooms filled with books and images of artwork and depictions of that which was and that which I would make again.

I learned my purpose is not in destruction as my father's was, not in retribution or fury.

I was born to restore.

I was born to heal.

So I will, I will, I will.

meticulous - methodical scholarly - innovative - calm
|| confidential - impersonal - soft ||
apathetic - critical - obsessive - resentful - single-minded

"There is something beautiful about the way that you call my name."

I remember she said this to me one night, tucked tight against her side, when the fires raged outside of our hovel of a house. Then, I'd looked up a as a boy. I looked up to her and said "because you are the only castle that I have ever known."

I was born in a very dry place with, from what I am told, is a very culturally rich people. They wear colors on their skin just as they do their cloths, they dance and burn incense. Above all, they worship their gods.

You do not go against the gods.

My mother told me that my father was a soldier once, and then a warrior, and then nothing more than a pile of ashes. My sister tells me that he started the Rebellion of Aenir. That rebellion killed many people, destroyed families, destroyed half of the city and its ancient history. My people tell me that my father was a monster who wore the skin of a man, a desert demon sent to shake their faith and ruin their home.

Our home... so they say.

I was born in my father's image. He never knew me, never knew I existed. Before my mother could tell him he had another child, a son, he waged his last battle and did not come home. My sister helped raise me when my mother left.

I was raised in a temple older than Time, only Druin knows its full history. He is ancient, immortal, but he sleeps so much that some believe his time is coming sooner or later.

Every day, I learn the history of Durnin, my home. Every day, I am reminded of the crimes my father committed, my father who I look so much like. I've tried to figure out what he hated so much about this land. I've tried to learn just what made him die.

Believe me, I have tried to understand him.

And yet, every day I can't find a fault in the story of the stones; every day, I find more and more beautiful lines and arches in this land I was born in; every day, I think him worse and worse than the last.

I don't know the reasons behind my father's crimes. I don't know entirely why my mother left. I don't know why my sister joined the Mercy and cannot visit me any longer.

There is so much I don't know...

But I do know that every day, I fall more in love with the city that my father hated.

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e-cho (PM Player)


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08/25/20 Character application accepted; +20 signos for visual reference. -SID