3. Anthology of Mistakes - Hannibal's Path

Anthology of Mistakes - Hannibal's Path


  • Hannibal sits in front of the Norwick well, leaning against the bench on a particularly sunny day. He frowns slightly and pulls out a small, leatherbound book. Just like all of his possessions, it is plain and unadorned. He sets the book in his lap and surveys his surroundings, taking everything in, before procuring a small flower from his belt. Placing the flower in front of his nose, he closes his eyes and inhales slightly, a bittersweet smile playing across his lips.

    He then places the flower inside the book and pulls out a quill, rubbing his stubble thoughtfully before turning to the first page.

    _"My name is Hannibal Charon. I am a widower and the last surviving member of the Charon name. I have lived a full life and have entered what I do believe to be my final years. I do not weep for what is to come though, because to the well organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. It is my desire to write my thoughts - however incomplete they may be - into this journal that others may learn from my many mistakes. My life has been very complete, and deciding on where to start has required significant forethought. After much consideration, I will begin with my childhood.

    I have never been a particularly remarkable individual. Not in my youth, not in my prime, and not now. Some may deign to disagree, but that is not my purview. I had excellent role models in my father and grandfather when I was a lad. Great men, both of them. My father was a farmer and true lover of the wild. My grandfather a carpenter that could build anything, provided he had enough time. Both of them opposed war, fighting and conflict of any sort. Under their tutelage I learned many things of use as a craftsman and survivalist. I yearned to grow old in the village, as they had. To find a wife and produce a family, as I felt was my duty. In my heart, I knew this was my path. To continue the legacy of the Charons.

    And this was the path I continued on. The idea of remaining stagnant did not sit well in my mind, though. I had been helping my father and grandfather farm, hunt and build for many years, and I was expected to take over for them as they grew old. The village was small, but even so, I was an average child. There were boys smarter, faster, stronger and more handsome than I. Indeed, some were all of these things. Many children do not realize such details, but I noted them all to myself and my mood turned dark, despite my efforts to keep it bright. My mother grew aware of my dissatisfaction with shortcomings and paid a local man to teach me to read.

    Reading changed my perspective on everything. There was more to life than building, farming, hunting and helping the village survive. It also served as a way for me to escape from my consistent reality. I read of adventurers, the great wizard Elminster and his battles, the neverending reign of Szass Tam, the awful men of the Zhentarium, and of dragons and treasures so vast a single man could never spend them all. I was very excited at first - elated, really. I still recall mentioning this newfound knowledge of the outside world to my family at the supper table one night. I will never forget it. My father acknowledged it, but questioned why anybody could ever want more than we had. He said we were blessed to have enough coin without conflict. And that we ought to be happy where we were.

    I agreed with him, for it was my understanding that staying in the village and becoming active in the community was what was required of me. After all, how could I even consider leaving home and inflicting pain upon others, righteous or otherwise? That wasn't me. War and greed were wrong. Though, as I grew into manhood, men came to the town. Men in armor bearing the standards of their lords. They spoke of a coming war, and how their victory was already assured due to their better arms and armor. The men were looking for any willing to join. Recruits were paid a stipend each moon cycle that was more coin than my family earned in all but the most bountiful seasons.

    The night before the men planned to return to their kingdom with the recruits, I told them I'd join them. I don't remember my reasoning, exactly. I did it on a whim. Assuming I'd be back as soon as the war ended. And I wouldn't be fighting, either. I could read, so I'd likely be a scribe or assigned to a clerical role. I ran home and informed my family of my intentions. My mother, as mothers are wont to do, burst into tears and embraced me. My grandfather looked proud and disappointed at the same time as he wished me luck. My father appeared hurt, though he steeled himself, shook my hand and told me to be safe. Not much of a family for long good byes.

    I grabbed my belongings (meager as they were) and met the men down in the village where they had saddled a horse for me. There were eight of us. Six of the soldiers, myself, and another boy who wished to join. He looked as tentative about the whole thing as I did, I'm certain. We left the village, and I remember the entire ride took a score of days. The entire time I felt the rising apprehension and dread in my stomach only men who knowingly approach death feel.

    Looking back on my life, I have widely regarded embarking on this journey as one of the poorest decisions I've ever made."_


  • Hannibal whistles a simple repetitive tune quietly as he slowly walks through the farm town, taking in the sights, sounds and smells. Norwick was a pleasant place when it wasn't besieged. He smiles slightly to himself as he walks to the outskirts of town. Dressed in a simple tunic of faded grey, middle aged and with no discerning features, nobody noticed him. Just as he preferred. He was an average man, deserving of no recognition. He was not worth anybody's time, despite what they might think. His whistling stopped as he reached his destination - the remnants of a small cottage atop a hill.

    The cottage had burnt to the ground years ago, and nobody of any importance had lived there. The pain and suffering that had taken place here years ago had gone by completely unnoticed by any living soul. Hannibal's smile faded as he arrived, replaced by a slightly pained expression. With a gentle exhale of breath, he walks past the charred debris to the base of a sakura tree. It was blooming. And he never missed a bloom. Pale pink blossoms littered the ground like snow, and Hannibal sat down amongst them, his back to the base of the tree. Leaning his head to rest against the smooth trunk of the tree, he let out a somewhat ragged breath and slid his worn journal from his pack. He picked up a blossom and twirled it between his fingers before placing it between pages in the journal. Taking up his quill, he began to write on the nearest fresh page.

    "I too often find myself alone with my thoughts. Years have gone by since I was able to put them to paper or a listening ear. A true shame, but so it goes. I must pick up where I left off those many years ago to truly put my life to paper.

    "I had escaped from a life of violence, only to find existence away from combat and strife too quiet. I was a combatant through and through. I had been trained to kill, both physically and mentally. I excelled at it and immersed myself in it. To my secret delight, I took to combat like a fish to water. It spoke to me, and gave me something to be proud of - something I had never had before. The emptiness I felt inside when I realized I would never again bet my life against another was soul crushing. I felt as if every emotion in me had been imprisoned, leaving a void in myself where there had once been a personality. I had taken the man I had become and tried to escape him because I feared where he would take me.

    I am not possessed of a particularly strong will, and it did not take me long to realize that I would waste away if I did not reopen that metaphorical box of caged emotions. I was nothing without who I had been. I fled the life of peace I had tried so hard to return to, much to the dissatisfaction of my family. I returned to those few friends I still had and we took every job we could find. The mission did not matter, and while we pretended we fought for coin, we really fought for the fight. The beast inside each of us was not satiated until we had fed it the adrenaline that comes with combat.

    A life of combat is unsustainable. War takes everything from those who give themselves to it. Every town and city from here to Waterdeep has the same seedy tavern full of mercenaries. Every war camp I have ever been to is full of them, too, and they come in every color. The young, smiling youths who eagerly await their first taste of combat, coins already spent on fresh gear and women. And, side by side with them, their future. Old, battered men who have given their entire existence to war - they are empty inside and will fight until they die. Their existence is meaningless, and they know it. But due to their decisions, they are doomed to follow battle until it ends them. Many of them die inside long before a blade finds their heart on the field. But do not weep for them, as that is how their story goes."

    Hannibal takes a break and rubs his stubble before returning to the page.

    "As years passed me by, I lived on the road and in those taverns. I gave my blade to anybody who would pay, and with it, my essence. Our actions, willing and unwilling, change who we are. I allowed myself to become consumed yet again by the emotions inside me that thirsted after fear, adrenaline and satisfaction. I came close to death many, many times. The medics patched me up each time, and my friends and I hid the rational fear a living being ought to experience after such behind laughter and stories. I was happy in my work, and I did not care who was harmed in it. I was a selfish man whose sole interest was the satisfaction I felt after giving myself to my basal instincts.

    And so I ended up in Narfell, under the employ of the Town of Norwick. They hired every mercenary who held still in those days, and my displayed lack of morals was just another attribute to my credit. Norwick changed my life more than any town has a right to, and I will always owe a large piece of who I am to it. All those years ago, while wearing Norwick's colors, I was struck down in battle. My first time. We always remember our first, or so I am told. Truth is, I only remember what happened afterwards. I awoke in a sandy desert at the feet of a tall man in a ruby robe. He looked down at me, and when I met his eyes I knew he was superior to me in every way. I sighed and awaited my fate.

    But when he spoke, it was not the cruelty I expected and deserved. He simply asked me what my deepest desire was. Keeled over in the sand with the King of the Nine as my only company, I finally experienced the quietness my mind never granted me in life. I had given everything to my lust for violence, and only in death did the urges subside. I was at peace, finally. It felt extraordinary, freeing and as akin to true liberation as anything I had ever felt. I no longer had any reasons to do anything. I had been absolved of any responsibility and all consequence. It felt undeserved. I was not a man who deserved peace in death.

    I met Asmodeus eyes and asked him what he meant. He knew, just as I did, that I had no desire. I was a shell of a man. An empty husk that hid from responsibility on the battlefield and gave in to basal wants. The archdevil shrugged his shoulders and told me that I was the type of man that deserved to be on the mortal plane. He said he would send me there with anything I pleased, in exchange for a favor. I looked around the endless expanse of sand and took his offer. I had seen death. I could always return. I had never walked the Realms with a favor from an archdevil in my pocket. Until then.

    I awoke in the Temple of Chauntea, thinking it had all been a dream. A much calmer dream than I usually had, but a dream all the same. I no longer felt the urge to throw my life away though. I was resigned. Weary. As I collected myself and walked out, a child with red eyes stopped me and produced a bag of gold coins. He thrust them towards me and spoke in a quiet, yet even, tone. Remember our deal. Then he left. I had made a deal with the Lord of the Nine, and had been compensated well for it. My weariness subsided, replaced with an excitement I had not felt since childhood.

    Years went by once more, and I spent the coins as quickly as they would appear in my pockets. The fanciest armor and the best made weapons. I plied my services in Oscura, bounty hunting for the city. I figured I might as well break in my new possessions. I bought expensive rooms and worked for the foulest people in all of Narfell. I contracted for anybody who could afford me. Not because I missed violence anymore, but because I thirsted for gold. I had tasted power, and I wanted more. And I knew I could get it. I had found a new meaning in life."

    Hannibal places his quill on the bed of blossoms beneath him and closes his journal slowly. Placing it in his pack, he gathers his things quietly and efficiently before running his fingers through his hair and leaning his head against the trunk of the tree behind him. He takes a small flask from his belt and uncorks it. He brushes a few blossoms off a small, unadorned stone marker near the base of the tree and pours a small amount of liquid from the flask onto the ground before taking a swig for himself. After swallowing, he scowls and leans back against the tree, closing his eyes in the remaining afternoon warmth.


  • Hannibal opens the door to the Chief's office, his unremarkable grey eyes surveilling the room warily. War trophies, armor stands, bookshelves and a cluttered desk await him. He casts a confident grin at the guards flanking him before striding in and locking the door behind him. His smile falters as the door closes, and a grimace replaces it while move moves to the desk.

    A look of derision replaces his grimace as he eyes the throne behind the table, and he moves it to the corner of the room, opting to replace it with one of the simple wooden chairs facing the desk. His desk. After taking a seat, Hannibal neatly organizes the cluttered papers on the desk, and with a defeated sigh, pulls his battered journal out.

    "Fuuuuuuuck me."

    He grunts, taking a deep breath digging through the desk for a writing utensil. Alas, only four bottles of ale in there. Fuck. What a cluster. With a shake of his weary head and another long sigh, he pulls his own ink and quill from his bag before setting to writing.

    _"It's been a long time since I opened this particularly drab piece of literature. On the one hand, I feel it's been too long, yet on the other, perhaps not long enough. For a rather unremarkable man, Fate seems to have taken an irrational amount of fun in truly obliterating any semblance of enjoyment I try to find in the little things. Men like me are not meant to do anything of importance. We simply exist to fill the void of the common man, all the while watching those around us experience any manner of things that 'always happen to somebody else.'

    And yet, here I find myself the interim Chief of a town I have protected for more years than any man has a right to. I am a guardsman, not a politician. I used to kill things, and I was rather good at it, but that was a different time. A different man, to be honest. I have become a better man since those days. I smile more now. I take a higher degree of pleasure in the little things. I do my best to help others now, which for the longest time was a foreign concept to me. And yet, right when I think I have it all figured out, Fate taunts me and places new hindrances in my path.

    It is becoming more and more of a challenge to find solace these days. Those I had found to confide in previously drift further away with each passing day, and I find myself less and less inclined to try and prevent this from happening. Truth be told, I know what the catalyst for it was, and I cannot blame them. That being said, I am not going to try and make it even any longer. I feel it is for the best if I focus my efforts now in to the task of maintaining peace and order in Norwick. For better or for worse, I have a town to look after now - innocents and guilty alike. That is my charge, and despite all else, I will remain a man of my word until my last breath. Some days, it seems my morals are all I have left. Others, it seems those flee before me as well.

    I have been the Chief a short time, and yet I have immediately become burdened by the sheer amount of issues facing this town. My task is to simultaneously run the town, while finding a suitable candidate for the Chancellorship. I thank the gods each day that Miss Maria and Miss Roslyn stand beside me and offer their unfiltered opinions. Without their input, surely this house of cards would come toppling down. And now, as the days progress, it seems there are those who simply wish to befriend me on the off chance that I will abuse my post to favor them in some way. A true shame, as this causes me to lose trust. And without trust, what do we have?

    I am beginning to see why Chief Voss has ale instead of stationary in his desk. It's far easier to dull the mind than it is to stimulate it into providing previously unforeseen answers to questions bigger than any one man. To top it all off, I find it amusing the thought I cannot shake from my mind through all of this was told to me by the man I have hated most in this world. His words, ever echoing through my head these days: "Power does not breed corruption. Fear does."

    I will do my best, and that is all that can be asked of me."_

    Hannibal leans back and regards the page with an intense expression of distaste. He flings it unceremoniously into the drawer and closes it with a boot, leaning back in his plain chair. He glances at the stone throne in the corner of the room thoughtfully and rubs his stubble.


  • Hannibal sits in his favorite chair outside the Dancing Mermaid on a particularly rainy day. His feet are propped up on the table next to a pile of battered armor and a bucket of various beverages. The utterly average man surveys the abandoned Commons warily a moment before sipping from his flask and opening his worn journal. After several moments of staring at the blank page in front of him, he opens his ink bottle and procures a quill.

    _“After the war, I returned home. I believed that I could return to a normal life with my family and continue down the path they intended for me. My homecoming was far more difficult than I could have ever imagined. My family was overjoyed to see me in the flesh, and at first, being home filled me with an insurmountable feeling of elation. My mother hung on to every word I spoke of the various locations I had been. My father put me to work immediately, and begrudgingly listened to my war stories as we labored. Truth be told, I was more pleased with his response. The work allowed me to exhaust myself, and only this calmed my thoughts, which were continuously pulled back to my yearning for combat. I was quite proud of myself, and took solace in my family’s attention. I had found my place for a very brief amount of time, and by telling the stories, I found something that allowed me a reprieve from the endless loop inside my head.

    Despite being home, I remained in correspondence with my comrades from the war. We spoke of all manner of things, though our conversations quickly turned toward the various troubles and struggles we each faced. I grew bored with the monotony of everyday life within a few days of returning home, and began to envision myself back in combat with every spare moment I had. Each of them admitted they felt this, too, and we began to plot our return to the adrenaline-fueled life we enjoyed so briefly. I instantly knew this was what I needed to do, despite the guilt I felt from recognizing that my family would loathe to see me leave so soon. Within weeks of my return, I had decided to pack my kit and return to the field with my companions, selling my martial services.

    I returned to my parents and told them of my intentions. As I expected, my mother again burst into tears, admonishing my decision and demanding that I stay, as she worried sick about me. And how selfish of a man I must be to put my own hankering for violence ahead of the adoration she held for her only child. My father merely nodded, and I think that perhaps he knew before I did that I would return to the fray. Had I known then what I know now about the beast that lives inside men, and how it feeds on savagery, I believe I would have stayed home to live the life of my forefathers in hopes it would subside. But that is not the path I took. While it may have been a mistake to continue feeding my most basic human instinct, I do not regret it, as without it, I would not be the man I am today.

    And so I took to the road with my closest friends, looking for work back in the trade I felt most comfortable with. We started off strong, only working the jobs we felt were morally aligned with our beliefs. There was plenty of work to be had, since as long as there is land and resources, men will wage wars for them. Most of our skill was in strategic warfare, though we occasionally took side jobs as hired protection or bounty hunting. It felt good to be back in the thick of things. The unwelcome thoughts and desires for adrenaline that had plagued me during my absence from battle diminished, as I continuously satiated that need with my newfound work. We worked as common mercenaries for years, though, in time, the faces around me began to change.

    Slowly, my friends began to wane. All manner of reasons were to blame, really. Some were slain; so it goes. Others found love, and left our ranks to pursue it. Many became disillusioned and could no longer be depended on, so they had to depart. And some, like myself, became absorbed in it. Years went by, though it is all a bit of a blur as I look back on it. I was no more a remarkable man then than I am now, but I followed a different creed. I had become utterly consumed with my work – plying my blade against those I was paid to kill – that I lost sight of the man I wanted to be.

    I spent years wallowing deeper into the savage cesspit of human emotion that is the life of a sellsword. I bid on seedier and seedier jobs, until I was nothing more than a glorified blade for hire. I had more coins than I could have dreamt of, and I spent them on every frivolous thing I could think of. The finest wines, the fanciest cuisine, embroidered armor, and the plushest rooms at the most renown establishments all in an effort to convince myself that the gold was what kept me working. But, the truth is, I kept selling my blade because it came easily to me. I had become dulled to all forms of empathy, and I lived only to see the next fight while partaking in whatever pleasures I could in between.

    I acknowledge that during this time I made a great many mistakes. I gave myself in to the raw emotion that I had previously spent so much time trying to stave off, and it nearly cost me the very fiber of my being. I would urge those that read this to never allow themselves to be consumed by the nagging feeling that accompanies the adrenaline rush of betting one’s life against another. Because while the feeling lessens as long as it is satiated, it returns with a vengeance the moment the high wears off.”_

    He leans back with a sigh and runs his stubble as he ponders what he has written. With a look of distaste, he closes the journal and tosses it unceremoniously into a bag, clearly disenchanted by whatever he has written.
    //xp pending - Void


  • Hannibal walks the ramparts of Peltarch in his usual dark commoner’s garb late in the night. He takes a seat on the edge of the battlements, his legs dangling as he turns his eyes to the heavens. His usual easy going expression is gone – replaced with a more reserved visage as he lowers his eyes. Slowly, he takes his gloves off, revealing his scarred hands while he stretches his fingers. From his belt he produces his manuscript, a feathered quill and a bottle of ink as he sets to writing.

    _“No matter how many times I have tried to relay or speak the following, elegance escapes me. Please, bear with me. I will do my best.

    The war lasted years. I scribed for the General for a few years, often at the rear of the battle. Close enough to hear the screams of man and beast alike, but far enough that the projectiles could not reach me. I felt a surge of pride, as if I had lived up to the expectations of some unknown ancestral warrior spirit. The thought of battle terrified me, but I was a soldier, and determined to do right by that title. I had friends, and we all had the same sick sense of humor. After seeing men die every day over a whim – whether it’s from a distance or up close – the transience of life begins to cloud one’s mind. We became disenchanted with the sanctity of the lives of others, and utterly accepting that killing all of our opposition was a justifiable means to an end. We felt no regret or remorse, and we alleviated the monotony of the days by jesting. To this day, I believe that I only did what needed to be done. What would have been done had I been there or not.

    As the war progressed, we became emboldened in our efforts to win. I volunteered to scribe for a unit tasked with fortifying a small forward position and carrying out a series of raids against small enemy groups. I was terrified, yet felt the urge to get closer to the fighting, though, surely not into it directly. This small decision has played an unforeseen role in every day of my life since.

    I packed my bags and was taken to my new position. The men there were like family. From the moment I stepped through the threshold into the command tent, they treated me as more than an equal. Like a brother. I instantly felt the fear of being so far from the safety of my family farm dissolve. I knew, without a doubt, that this obscure camp far from home was where I belonged. The first week went by uneventfully, and I took on the roles and responsibilities that were required of me. Menial tasks, all of them, though our lives revolved around them, and we shared them evenly.

    With the dawn of my second week, I had my first actual taste of real combat. Much different from observing from the general’s tent. I awoke to the sound of shouts seconds before there was an explosion. I got up as swiftly as I ever had, though, I had a strange sense of calmness to me. As I got into the command tent, those that were not manning posts were huddled around a map. We had been targeted by enemy siege equipment, though they had missed by a few hundred feet. A second explosion rattled us, and it became clear that they were ‘walking’ their projectiles on to our camp. Orders were given, and half of us armored up to press towards the enemy position.

    At this point, what actually transpired is as meaningless as it is forgotten. We descended upon our enemies with arrows and blades. We killed all of them. I killed my first man, up close and personal, and I do not remember what he looked like. What I do remember vividly was how painfully easy it was. This was no grand feat. It was not a lifechanging moment. I was just another minute in my life. The ‘battle’ such as it was lasted seconds. Afterwards, our search for orders took minutes. Plenty of time to reflect upon what I had done while rifling through the pockets of those I had just slain. The war became more real only when I stumbled across the favors of women and lockets on the dead. The only sense of unease came from my own acknowledgement that I felt unchanged, though.

    Upon returning to the camp, my nerves had settled. My adrenaline must have been pumping, but I did not realize it. All I felt was the strange sense of serenity and purpose. A true sense of belonging in the fray. We debriefed, and I was told I did well. I found something that I could be average at, and still excel. My job was to be dependable, and as a team, we would succeed. No words can describe how useful I felt. Like I belonged. I stayed in the unit for a year, taking every opportunity to go out on missions.”_

    Hannibal scratches his stubble, his expression unreadable, and he adds an afterthought at the bottom of the page.

    _“The thing most people do not include in their ‘heroic’ or ‘glorious’ memoirs about war is the feeling you get after you have hedged that bet of the highest stakes. When you enter into combat with another, you are betting your life against theirs. And to fulfill the ante, you resort to your most primal self – one who cares about victory more than anything else. And it feels so damned good to feed that feral side. I became an addict, and every second outside of combat I had a yearning to defend myself. I would walk down streets and hope I would be attacked just to have the opportunity to unleash my fury in a self-perceived ‘righteous’ sense and kill again.

    That feeling, that yearning, does not go away with time. It is infuriating. A constant buzz inside one’s head. For years, I was unable to walk into an establishment without immediately sizing up every person in the room and planning how I would kill them if it came to it. As a reflex. Not because I wished them ill, but only because it had become my norm. At the same time, it became impossible for me to control my thoughts. Memories would surface, unbidden. Everyday actions would remind me of the war. My mind would make connections between the most minor of details, and wander back to the battlefield. I did not feel remorse or regret. I did not feel disgust or anything of the sort. Nor did I feel elation. I felt empty, and dull. Completely apathetic. I also felt as if I did not fit in anywhere. It can be hard to relate to others when every minute of every day you think of all the people you and yours have slain for no other reason than it is the single most overpowering thought in your head.

    A man loses all semblance of what is important in life when he is being dragged back into battle mentally every day. Words cannot describe it, and I can only hope you never experience it. The mindset never goes away, but like anything, with time, a man gets used to it. Enough of my ramblings, though. The hour grows late.”_


  • Hannibal leans his back against the lone tree trunk dotting the sandy interior of the cove. He wears his usual faded tunic and bears his traditional laid-back expression. He wiggles his toes in the water slightly in thought before grasping a handful of sand and watching the tiny granules slip from his clenched fist a few at a time. With a faint smile, he opens his plain leather journal and begins to write.

    _“It has been some time since I’ve had the time to sit back and further my memoirs. That being said, stories flow best when picked up where they have been left off, and this will be no different.

    We rode hard for many days; stopping only long enough to eat, sleep and care for the horses. Though, I fear by the time we reached our destination, the creatures were not long for this world. Impending war drives men to do questionable things and make hasty decisions. Our destination was a training camp of sorts. A large clearing with a few dozen tents and hundreds of men. Most of those assembled looked as frightened as I felt.

    My time in the training camp is a blur now. The byproduct of angst, stress, pain and sleep deprivation, I fear. I endured the traditional rigors all soldiers go through – learning to march, withstanding unprecedented mental and physical attacks, and, of course, that moment every young soldier remembers well: the writing of his will. There’s something sobering about contemplating the transience of life and one’s own mortality before being old enough to marry. To those who do not know of what I speak, words cannot do it justice. To those that do know, all I have to say is, I sympathize.

    I went through the training and did well. That is to say, I remained unremarkable throughout in order to avoid unnecessary confrontation with the instructors, and succeeded at all assigned tasks. The entire duration of the training had me worried and nervous, inexplicably so. I feared that I had only passed each task through blind luck, and that certainly the next trial would be insurmountable, forcing me to flee home with my tail betwixt my legs. But that impossible day never came. I helped my comrades, and they helped me. We became a team of sorts, though I can only recall the vaguest impressions of them. It was a rewarding process, as it taught me more of myself than any challenge had before that point. I believe that self confidence is the most important tool any man can wield.. At the end of it, I was assigned into a more clerical role as a staffer at the General’s table due to my literacy.

    Many times, I wonder if I made the ‘right’ decision by pursuing the career as a soldier. It came with a heavy cost, but it was also the first real stepping stone for the tale that my life has been. I wonder the man I would be if I had never taken a life, however justified. I wonder who I would be if I’d stayed on the farm to fulfill my ‘purpose’. Or what would happen if I’d chased down the scholarly pursuits. Alas, as they say, life is too short to chase down the infinite possibilities of what ifs. Live, learn and overcome.

    I learned much at the General’s side. I was not the strongest man, and had no desire to actually lift a blade in battle, as I had not invested much in our ‘cause’. I was there to ‘broaden my horizons’ and, admittedly, with a hint of greed. To my young self, the promise of so much gold to myself was tempting. Live and learn, though. That is all for today, I think."_


  • The next page has been torn out and crudely smoothed back into place. It is covered with chocolate imprints of a pixie in three separate poses. It appears to be signed at the bottom with a small, chocolatey kiss.