3. (Pavel) journal of a dead man

(Pavel) journal of a dead man

  • V

    _The tender skin on his chest still itched, even days after they had stitched, burned their sign into it, marked him as one of theirs. Instinctively his fingers touched the dirty cloth that was wrapped around him, originally it had been a very clean cloth - for Kosef it had been a definite sign that they considered him an important property, something to polish and show off to their friends, perhaps - but now, after three days on his person, the formerly white cloth had become brownish, soaked with dirt and sweat. He hadn't done much to keep the cloth clean, nor had he done much to prevent being branded in such a way.

    It had been his cold desire to meet the rich and noble man that had paid the gold for him, bought him as a slave, a mere thing, for his own amusement or his profitable schemes. For three days now, he had been locked into the carriage, deprived of more than minor exercises, deprived literally of his freedom once again. In an attempt to stay calm, Kosef focused - as he had been taught by Rowan - on the cold, burning hatred for the man who had all this arranged, a Vaasan noble or merchant, and tried to meditate on all the endless suffering and brutal pain he would put that man through.

    When the carriage door was finally pulled open by two large towering half-orcs, he struggled, but the thick, muscled arms that seized him, dragged him into the glare of the bright afternoon sun didn't give way. Strong hands closed about his arms, held him in place, even though he tried to move he didn't have enough strength to wriggle free, break the hold on him, as the pale-skinned dandy strolled up to him, looked him over with those noble, distant eyes, inspected him like one might look at a shiny, jewelled dagger, and commented in his dandy voice:_ "Good for paired fighting."

    A nod to the side from the dandy, his long hair, his shiny locks throwing a shadow over Kosef's face, and then he was dragged off, his teeth gritted and his feet trying in vain to get a firm grip on the ground. The two mercenaries seemed not bothered by any effort of Kosef to free himself off their grip, without much difficulty they dragged and pushed him up a flight of stairs and then shoved him through another door, locking it behind him. Kosef shook the last bits of anger off, and then took a moment to look around. Sitting on a makeshift bed, another man returned the angry glance with a faint smile. As Kosef stalked over the other man rose and gave him a terse nod, introducing himself in a open and friendly manner that had become so unfamiliar to Kosef:

    "Hi, I'm Pavel."

    New faces

    There's some new crew signing up lately. That's good. Gets the Sails active again. Gives Sabre things to do. There's also some new trainees at the monastery. Gives me things to do. Never been one to handle dealing with new people well. Glad Sabre takes care of the Sails at least.

    John seems interesting. His eye patch reminds me a bit of Deacon. Think he'll make a good leader of sorts. Mercy and him can't seem to get along, though. Some god stuff. Stupid? But it worked out well with the ogres. Good with a bow, stuck back and shot. And good enough in mêlée. Very fond of rapiers. Bit crazy about them.

    Jack seems sweet. Bit like Taria. Hope she doesn't break on the fact that Umberlee isn't. At least seems to know when to instil fear. On the upside, she's way more easy to be around than Mercy. Even though Sabre's now managed to actually be able to talk Mercy into being nice. Still. Jack's way easier understood. Great to have her on board.

    Sabre's put Urgh as a personal guard to Jack. And that's a good pairing. Urgh's become the new loot carrier. Saves me from a lot of trouble, too. Though I still ended up carrying a large amount of those heavy throwing axes back. Wonder how much stuff Urgh himself carried. Probably way more. Now that he's got bags it should be easier for him, too. Despite being a bit on the dumb side, Urgh managed not to die to ogres. Listens to orders well. Definitely good addition.

    Luke's on the crew for his captain. Which is Sabre. They both like each other well enough. The guy just seemed scared I'll rip him apart. Tried to reassure him I won't. Hopefully finally believes me. Third try. Could make a really great addition because he's a really friendly kind of guy. Could help improve relationships with everyone. Could. Would be a good thing that.

    Just don't know how I fit in there. Mercy's back on the crew, too. Fighting, kicking and cussing as ever. Seems a bit nicer, lately. Helped a lot with the ogres. Wonder if it's all the scrolls she gets lately, that makes her happy and more ready to share the Queen's blessings.

    Great that things are happening again, too. Sabre's growing to meet the new challenges. Good to see. I'll just see where my place is. Liked to be able to just focus on fighting. Hit the ogres hard. Sabre stabbed them really well. She's as deadly. As lovingly lethal as ever.

    Together, we're worse.

  • V

    _Rowan's laugh struck deep, it pierced what little value Kosef had left of himself. He was slowly understanding what was really going on, and he had liked it less and less. But the hearty laughter and the sheer, undisguised joy that he read, that he saw in Rowan's otherwise so cold eyes made him finally understand the depth of the betrayal. Somewhere deep inside he felt the dark knowledge rise that he should have, that he had known who it was that he just cut up. It was a living and breathing human, much like him. Did it matter so much who it was? It was just another step on his way to learn the art of weaponless fighting, just another stepping stone, as significant as the others, and as unimportant, on its own like rising each morning for the ardours, painful training. And yet, for Kosef this was not.

    For him, it was of special significance, because this finally showed him the cruel price he was paying for his dream. Mehmen. He had liked him, gotten to know him over the first few weeks in the monastery. In training they had often been paired, fought together as a team quite a few times, too. But he knew that the human before him was beyond being saved by Ilfer. Too much blood was dripping on the ground, was covering his own hands. He had killed Mehmen, the painful knowledge of that horrible deed sunk slowly in just as his friend's blood formed a single, dark pool._

    "You have a choice," _Rowan said with that cruel and happy mirth in her voice, promising as much as taunting him. Kosef's grey eyes sought hers, and he only found coldness in the wintry, frozen blue eyes that met his pleading gaze. He knew that he had only a slave's choice, obey or be punished. For a long moment he paused, trying to make up his mind, and then he looked back at what his hands had done to the one he would have called a friend.

    It was then that Kosef made a secret vow. Never again would he laugh. Never again. At the same time, he made up his mind to take this step, to move on, even over his friend's life towards the goal. After all, he hadn't come here to learn how to save people's life. His sole purpose in the monastery was to learn how to kill, how to kill quickly, quietly and even when he was unarmed. For too long, he hadn't had a proper choice, and he would learn how to make those people pay who took away the right to chose from Mehmen, from his mother, from himself, and from so many others.

    With his purpose clear in mind, his blood stained, sticky hands found the neck, found the spine, and his finger found the cervical vertebra described by Rowan. His grey eyes locked onto Rowan's and he tried to show his defiance of her plan even as he took the next step in what she must have devised. But Rowan's eyes only spotted the strength of will, the fierceness in the new great weapon she was forging, moulding to her will. And so she smiled, confidently._

    Wasted
    Maybe it's a waste that I think of myself as a weapon. I've been trying to think of the other parts a life contains. The world isn't really divided in people, in stuff that has to be killed and stuff that hasn't yet earned that status. No, there's a lot more - shades to consider.

    I had that idea first when I watched a candle. So, I thought I offer that to the students, see if they get a similar, or an entirely different view. That already means facing my weakness perhaps. I'm more than just the martial abilities of my body. I'm a human being.

    I can watch candles burn down.

    For my students it must seem odd how I consider being able to burn a candle a huge gift. But it is a very liberating experience. My first duty as a slave was to douse every candle, every single candle in rooms that were not used. I was whipped often when I was too slow to find unused rooms in the house so that valuable candles were wasted.

    Now, I can buy candles, and give them away.

    And have the candles burnt.

    Without purpose.

    Wasted.

  • V

    Ilfer never showed any sign of tiring, and often her healing touch was just as painfully cruel as the horrifying, or utterly mundane devices used to create the wounds in the first place. Whispered in the sleeping room were some wild stories about why she was here in the first place, the only constant in the stories that Kosef had heard so far was that she followed the maiden of pain, and as she sprinkled the glittering healing dust on the deep wounds, the peeled off skin on his chest, the sting made him scream out in pain again - even though he had been more than prepared for it. Maybe it was that careless scream but the leather covered hands of the cleric closed firmly around his arm as she pulled him to a sitting position again. "You're a delightful boy. Such a delightful voice."

    _Faster than on any other day, an inwardly quivering Kosef collected his blood stained robe and even hurried out of the room as quickly as he could. The hacking laugh of Ilfer followed him through the door, and as he more or less ran down the hallway that barely muffled, rhythmical sound chased him. Some of the more wild stories, inspired by young boys no doubt, conjured up the horrifying desires the cleric must have. Those frightening and enticing whispers left an impression on Kosef, and there definitely was no one about, too, that could possibly say to have returned from a summon to the private chambers of Ilfer.

    After a short time, that she used to painstakingly thoroughly clean up the boy's blood from her operation and torture table, Ilfer went to join the masters of the monastery, her good mood lingering on and giving her a smile that a silent panther might show when creeping up on a particularly juicy meal. It didn't come as a surprise to her, either, when Dorn made the boy the topic of conversation, few had been subjected to as much or as thorough torture. For a while they chatted amiably about quite inventive ways to cut into a human body in extremely painful ways and once again she was quite impressed by Dorn's intimate knowledge of that particular subject._

    "He's not going to break on it," Rowan cut in, her very voice sharp as any knife. Ilfer would never admit it, but if there was any person alive that managed to scare her, it was Rowan. The steel blue eyes that could gaze upon people as curiously, as calmly analytical, and as coldly promising were coupled with a voice that could lend a thousand different meanings to the word cut. Rowan was the sole reason for Ilfer to stay around, she admired the older woman and her amazing skills. So now she turned her attention and curiosity to Rowan, while Dorn was about to make a rash, and brash comment but he was cut short by Rowan. "He's already been broken on physical pain."

    "What do you suggest then," Dorn asked, visibly biting back his anger, which on its own caused a crackling fire to waken inside Ilfer warming her and she began to truly like the day. And as Rowan laid out her cold, and cruel plan, Ilfer's day became better and better. As the plan was drawn out in its entirety, Ilfer's skin started to tingle, the fire inside her tickling her skin and she enjoyed the sensation of witnessing firsthand the pain planned for Kosef. While she hadn't been eager to accept that physical torture couldn't break a man, or boy, she had to admit that what she saw in Rowan's plan of close friendship and fiendish betrayal was a deep and thorough understanding of many facets of pain. Once more, she admired the older woman's wisdom.

    Wisdom
    I think it was Yu Shei who put it quite bluntly. But nonetheless properly. I have progressed quite far. Farther than some monks. But my understanding lacks behind. I don't like the spiritual, dogmatic side. Part. Life. I despise it. And yet, I have seen that it is part of my life. That I need it, to continue on.

    If I wish to progress, I have to find it in me. Face it. I have to become that which I claim not to be. Claimed. I'm already accepting the role of a monk. Outwardly. Inwardly I don't.

    It's the difference between someone who stumbles down a path. A wave that's carried to the beach, crashes. And is reborn to repeat. And repeat. And someone who walks a path. Directs where he goes. Where do I want to go?

    I wonder if it's not just sufficient to really understand my place. Who I am. What I am.

    The wise knows her own weaknesses. Faults.

    Do I have the strength to face my own weakness?

  • V

    _It was an uneven match. A large, grown man, arms fat with muscle, against slender Dorn, Master Dorn as they were supposed to call him. Kosef stood amongst the other new arrivals, watching curiously. Feeling thrilled at the possibility to see once again how fast these monks can be. His grey eyes watched with fascination as Dorn slid out of the way of the axe and reached through the arms, the shiny armour on the brute shifting slightly.

    After a few seconds the fight was already over, the strong brute buckled over, fell to his knees. Dorn's swift hands reached through and sent the defeated man screaming to the ground. Too often had Kosef seen the reverse, a strong, well armed guard lashing out with the blood drawing whip. But even the axe hadn't saved this one. Strength and weapons reduced to helplessness in the face of speed. Treacherous safety, the armour.

    And then Dorn stepped in front of the flailing figure and spoke quietly, yet with a sharp edge that cut through the pain filled, lonely screaming like a headsman's axe severs flesh and bone. The words were filled with a tantalizing promise of power, they were promising to make his most dire wish real. Many eyes wandered to the writhing mass of muscle, watching the unfolding pain, the despairing cries of a helpless rage. But Kosef's grey eyes focused on Dorn, on the dream of a sweet power laid out before him. That's when Dorn first noticed him and a cruel smirk settled on his face._ "You, boy. What's your name? And what's your question?"

    "I was called Bran," Kosef replied warily, and especially careful to avoid to show how much he shook inwardly at being singled out. The years in forced servitude, in slavery had taught him to be swift to answer any questions. "I'm just impressed by your speed, Master Dorn."

    For a moment, Kosef stood expecting the gleam that showed in Dorn's eyes to mean he was about to receive a beating, but then Dorn laughed, a deceptively light laughter. And he went on to explain why he left the man writhing in pain, and didn't send him into the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness, or death. "Pain will be your companion for the rest of your life. Pain will be your friend, your lover, and your saviour. You will learn to embrace it, and to share it. You, Bran, step forward."

    Kosef did as he was bid, fearing the consequences of not obeying, but he had not understood anything at all yet. The gleam in Dorn's eyes was that of a passionate hatred as he watched the scrawny boy approach him slowly and he set about the task of sharing that hatred with a lover's devotion. His slim hands reached out, slender but strong fingers caressing the boy's side and then with a touch oddly as fleeting, as hesitant as a first shy kiss, his thumb pressed in and broke a rib.

    Teaching
    I don't have a clear goal in mind, when I teach. That makes it difficult. I try more to learn from my students, than press my thoughts, my way on them. If it's one thing I understood is that everyone wanders their own path. There's not two people who walk the same road.

    I understand that sometimes you share the road with some people. Others cross your road. And it's up to you what you make of it. What you learn from them. It's really all you can do. Observe them and learn from them what they're willing to show you.

    Some are clever enough to look at you. Want to understand your path. I wonder if you truly can understand a different person, or if you aren't just trying to find yourself in what they do.

    Maybe I'm stuck in the same dilemma as Dorn. As much as I don't like to admit that. His teachings focused on the bodily part. His common ground was pain. The common part I see in all the potentials is the exercise. It's about keeping your body in shape. Keeping your body focused. As the candle might say, bring body and mind together. Focus them on one thing.

    It's the best I can do. Is it good enough?

  • V

    The Sun and the Candle

    Sources of light. Both.

    The sun burns brightly. Fiercely. Hotly. It's staring down. Unreachable. Untouchable. It's distant. And yet Met brings it here. A sunny fellow. That's a very fitting description for him. He sees joy and fun everywhere. Even in a cave, he does bring the sun. And it's not just his garments. Or as he would have it perhaps, his fists. Or other parts of himself. It's his nature. His strange tee-hee sound.

    He's difficult to understand. At least if does try to talk. And maybe what's really wrong with him is that he's spend too much time in the sun. That can happen, at least in deserts. It's a weird path. One that's not so different from my own perhaps. It's filled with pain, bringing of pain, and a distance of the mind. The mind is not really embedded in the normal world.

    I probably couldn't teach him much. Partly because he knows most things already. And partly because he leads a sheltered life. So much unlike mine. He seems stuck in his mind. Free in body, but somewhere else with his mind. That's the main difference. I was always forced onwards by the body. Driven by the hurts, and pains, and later the caresses, the laughter.

    And that's so much unlike Aana. I'd compare her to a candle. Small, threatened to be broken. To melt in the presence of the sun. Yet, the light is stable in the darkness. You can carry it with you, rely on it. And most importantly, start it when you like. A small flame, at your command.

    She looks fragile. And that's perhaps going to remain so, for a good long while. But it matters not to her. She's a monk in the true sense. Living a sheltered life. Spending her time away contemplating, meditating. It's a different role. One that's difficult to grasp for me.

    She claims that meditating focuses both mind and body to a single task. To the here and now. While I agree in theory, I have my doubts. Doesn't help your mind to be still, if you're attacked by a kobold, or a bear. You have to have it more liquid, moving aside, flowing in, closing in and then crashing against the attacker. Like water.

    That's my perception. She's definitely picked my interest, though. I can't help but wonder about her path. She's one to watch. To teach.

    And I think I'll learn a great deal. A whole lot. From her.

  • V

    Voided
    It's there. I've seen it now. The blackness of it. The soundless hunger. The driven soulless. The void?

    Don't really know what made me go along. I better pretend it was eagerness for loot. But that wasn't it. I left once the fighting was done. I came along for the trip. Not even for the thrill. Just to measure myself. That's probably why I didn't hesitate stepping through the portal.

    Unprepared.

    It wasn't just me. People knew the dangers. But they brought the enthusiastic along. Didn't protect them. Sure, a scout was there. But forward. Alone. Safety is spelled differently. People died. No rear guard, no elemental protections for the weaker ones. Their risk? Probably been warned.

    Not my problem.

    Went through a portal, chasing a hobgoblin. Got stuck on an island with a small army. The normal, then. A slaughter of many hobgoblins. Weak in the face of the power we brought. Kara. Ronan. Ginger. Those three alone could have killed the lot of them.

    Extermination.

    Didn't really learn much. Few times there was a chance to talk. People preferred to insult. Fight. And kill. I was surprised to see that Kara allowed the body to be handled as a trophy. Monster or not. Guess it's okay, so long you don't hurt it. Don't understand the pleasure of having the stink of burnt human flesh in the camp.

    Was it fair? I don't think so. Didn't see the guy having hung his rooms with trophies of the kills of his monsters. Didn't even stop to ask the guy why he kept such pets. Someone of that power doesn't do things for the pleasure of their grunts. Or whatever.

    Power.

    The guy reeked of it. If half of what he said was true. If. The way his tower disappeared proved him right. Something claimed what the group had not. Power. Artefacts of immense power must have been in there. I wonder who reclaimed them. The void. Blackness? Shar?

    Someone got that guy's back. Someone who probably didn't mean us to get away. We failed to use the toys he gave the hobgoblins. Toys. Portal creating toys? Used a conventional method. A ship. But did it accomplish, what was demanded. What was longed for?

    Revenge?

    Freed some people. The only truly and purely good deed, that day. I guess. Revenge would be to get them trained and ready to fight hobgoblins. That would feel good. Arm them. Train them. Fuel their desire to break hobgoblins.

    It's time to make some new friends.

  • V

    Getting up
    I've hit the ground. And was reduced to pieces. It's time I learnt from it. Take what you can. Enjoy. That's what I have lost.

    Blurred.

    Both my memory and my sight must have been blurred. Life isn't about attaining some supernatural state. Unless you're a monk. Do I want to be a monk? Do I truly want to give the part up that makes me human? At the moment, I don't think so. It is a goal, yes.

    I remember clearly Keira's suggestion. That I should take on students of my own. To progress along the path further. Maybe that's what cost me so much.

    Gold.

    Neither a goal I can adopt. It's important, alright. But I happen to have almost enough to satisfy even the rather high request the captain put forward. Sure, my worldly possessions would be sorely missed, if they were taken. But they aren't what I've been seeking.

    A smile.

    That's what I've truly missed. A heartfelt, heartwarming smile. It's not very much in accordance to strictures of most orders. A smile. That's not a monk's goal. It reminds me of Nicahh's joke. Maybe it was more than just a simple joke. It's never really applied to me. I've never felt myself bound by all the belief around the teachings.

    Should I dissolve into tears? Like the old man in that joke. At finding out that it read celebrate.

    Celebrate.

    In a way, that's what I've been doing. Though I don't really call it that. It's just enjoying what life offers. Nothing more.

    Nothing less.

  • V

    Illusions and Pain
    Pain. That's real. It's like an anchor. Keeping me secured. Providing a hold. And as far from shore as I am, that's important. Remember that somewhere. Somewhere far away. There is a solid ground. Reality.

    My memories are a mess. I don't know what is dream. And what is not. I learnt a lot of little things. The most important lesson perhaps listening. I was pretty good at that to begin with. But I didn't have that last edge.

    When the masters found me, they claimed I wasn't ready. I thought they meant me to defend myself in a fight. I would have been ready for that. Somewhat. I would have been prepared to kill. Or die.

    At first, they took my sight. A dark room. Voices. All kind of sounds. Loud. Quiet. Sharp, high. Low. Repetitive and random. And then I understood. All of the sounds. At once. I think I must have screamed, trying to drown out the din. Trying to shield myself.

    That's when they hit me, the first time. And I was thankful for it.

    I woke in a room full of wonderful gems. Glimmering, shining. Brightly, beautiful. The master of the dawn stood there. He gave me a nod, and a sad smile. I was pondering the price, or how priceless the things in the room where. That's when he pulled back the covers. Light flooded in, breaking in the crystals. A myriad of colours spreading through the room.

    I stared fascinated, until the light hit my eyes. And all went white.

    All turned white.

    I must have wept then. Like a child. Like a stupid, weak child.

    Next we stood on a cloud. A rain cloud. It grew dimmer and dimmer under my feet. As if from a distance, I heard them explain that if I was ready I just needed to let go of the pull of the ground. And I'd float. The cloud grew dimmer. Disappeared. They floated. I tried. Tried to let go of everything.

    But I couldn't. I felt the pull. And I couldn't tell it to go away. Couldn't.

    Somehow on my way to the ground, I turned and looked up. The master of storms nodded to me. It was a fond smile, I think. The others just looked a bit sad. I hit the ground as the sun broke through the sky. It burnt an image into my eyes, even as I felt my bones shatter.

    I wasn't ready. The realization hit me. Like crashing a second time on some ragged ground. I'm not ready.

    Rays of light. Hot. Burning in my eyes. Stinging my eyes.

    The light is real.

  • V

    Sunrise - or dawn?
    It has been quite easy to fall in step. There is little enough other things to do for them. Or so it seems. Their ideas seem a little far fetched. A bit weird even. But the training they undergo makes loads of sense.

    Of course, it's coloured by their belief system. Claiming a specific punch would be an honour to their god. If I paid their words any heed in that matter, there's certain moves that work better at specific times of day. Just like there are certain words. Gestures. Kicks. Like it mattered if I used sunrise or dawn. Got to watch it here, though. They pay attention. And I still want to learn.

    It just drives me crazy the amount of frowns I got for using the word dawn. Why does it have such importance here. That's uncanny. That's what made me stay, perhaps. Dawn.

    The huge, big secret they keep hoarding somewhere are the stuff that works best during an eclipse. The master teaching the stuff for the eclipse of the moon. Now that was interesting. He didn't teach the whole stuff. Just hints, gestures. Parts of it. And when I tried to combine more than two into a series, he frowned at me and actually hit me with his stick.

    Quite humiliating.

    But I listened. I learnt. I'm not sure I understand completely. But it seems they make out Selune as responsible for ageing. And while she isn't looking, in certain nights, you can actually reverse the process. At least for your body. I don't buy the crap about a goddess involving herself in any individual's life that closely. But I'm curious if they're right otherwise.

    The really weird stuff, though, that's their talk of being able to tell the difference between sunrise and dawn. By listening. There's almost every morning at least one monk who'll get up in the middle of the night, blindfolded and then stand outside, concentrating so very hard.

    They each try differently. Some meditate, others actually dance. Others sing a wordless hymn. The only thing that makes me not put it away as complete crap is the simple fact that it works. Not for very long. But sometimes one or another actually understands everything that's said. Even if the day before they didn't have a clue.

    Also makes me wonder, if there really is a difference between dawn and sunrise. Or if it's just a metaphor. I'm pondering trying that blindfolding myself. Maybe all I needed to do, to find my dawn, was to listen to it. Rather than the sunrise.

    Yeah, right.

  • V

    On the Road
    It's interesting to observe the nature of a road.

    At first it's just a path taken by many. Grown. Adorned. Built. Some parts are easier to travel, some roads are fortified. I wonder if the inn, or little hamlets or villages are part of the road, or if the road is part of them. They require each other, I think. A road that leads nowhere would not be well travelled, would be obsolete. Would it exist? Could it exist?

    And a village without a road leading to it, would be empty. Cut off. Like a different plane. Unreachable. Lonely?

    But a road is more than its buildings, its basics. Its frozen features. A road carries travellers, caravans, people. Sometimes guards and patrols are almost ever present. What makes it a good road? The presence of others, or is it the other way around? A good road will have many travellers?

    With some of those I share a part of the road. Sometimes talking, chatting. Exchanging news, sharing stories. Sharing a part of the time. I move faster than most, but some of them make me slow down. Walk their pace. Listen to them. Learn?

    Like the man and his three children who carry the body of their grandfather. Preserved. So that he may be buried at his birthplace. Returned home to the soil that gave him life. It's not that his body or his soul cares much. In fact, it's more of a really bothersome chore. At first. It's got to do with traditions, again, I figured. It's not about the soul of the one that's dead, that's gone. But it's about burying someone. Saying their farewells.

    And even though they basically do it for themselves, their journey. They claim it's their way to honour the memory of their dead grandfather. At the end of their journey, they'll return home with lighter hearts. Knowing they did all they could possibly do. Maybe resting themselves as easy as they wish their dead does.

    I left them when they stopped for refreshment. Long before my feet got tired, long before the sun was halfway up in the sky. Boys, that's what their old man called them - much to their grunting and good natured dislike. One of the boys had kept smiling at another traveller. Maybe he'll end up chatting her up. Maybe he - or she - will find a new home. And in years to come, their children will have a similar task at their hands.

    The same road to travel - except that it will lead somewhere else. And yet, both roads lead home.

    Home.

    I wonder if home lies at the end, or at the beginning of my own journey.

  • V

    The Quest
    I woke one day and I realized I got screwed.

    Pain.

    There's been a lot of it. I used to welcome it. I was taught to enjoy it. No, relish, venerate or whatever. Nothing like pain to make me remember what life truly was - one horrible, bloody long death. It isn't ever over. Until you die. Maybe I died, just didn't know. Maybe it was all just one bloody nightmare.

    Dawn.

    Road takes me east. Into the dawn. I watch the sun rise. Tinge the damp landscape into that golden glow. I cannot believe all is dying. It's living, glowing. I marvel at the sight of a few deer racing out of a wood.

    Distractions.

    But not all is good. Like the four fools who thought one man with an axe on his back an easy mark. Taught them a valuable lesson, if they are able to learn. An axe looks dangerous, but a small knife in skilled hands is way more dangerous - because it's hard to spot. Didn't even need weapons.

    Darkness.

    The landscape has it's dark spots. Dead trees, burnt fields are part of it. But just one part. Small. Insignificant? Don't think so. It's all one huge thing. Everything's got a place in it.

    Even I. Even my past. A fool's errand to try to excuse it. It's mine. I'm not proud of it, but it is mine. I have to live with it. If I want to change something, it'll have to be the future.

    What I have to find, then. My very own dawn.

    The road takes me eastwards.

  • V

    Fishy Thieves
    It's not like we didn't have our share of trouble with the fishmen before, but it's news to me to see them launch an attack on Peltarch's docks. Apparently they had some sort of powerful portal. That's disquietening. If they have the power to open such a portal, what are their limits?

    Can they open it into our warehouse? Or is that protected? It's high time we got some knowledge on who among those freaks has that kind of power. And then leave them bleeding to death.

    It was thrilling, but also oddly relaxing. The trip on the ship. Sabre said I looked like a real sailor. I suppose I did no longer need to look and ask what to do, besides, there wasn't really much that we could do. I still don't know if it was magic, or if they dragged us like that other guy suggested. Fish freaks pulling and pushing the ship.

    Lucky steering on her part, too. And we managed to keep the ship afloat just long enough. Though I didn't really do my part in that. Odd those Auril followers. I wonder how long they'll live. Their goddess has some power of the polar bears, though.

    It could be a great deed, Sabre and me sneaking into the Kuo Toa caves and finding and killing whoever managed to create that portal. Blood magic, Felix said.

    Sabre and me. A ship for us?

    I still have a smile for that look of hers. It was she who compared a ship to a kid first. And sharing a ship to a marriage. That really shocked her, I think. But it was all in good spirits, and with some rum. At the end of the day, I think I might even be willing to risk that with her. To risk, and enjoy.

    A ship.

  • V

    Traditions
    Made me wonder about my own path. She did. Told her to abandon her traditions and move on. Keep what's useful. She sticks with it. Wonder what that means?

    I left my past behind, gave it all up. And found myself hanging in a void, empty. Felt a bit alone. Finally catch footing and Sabre's still there. Protecting me. Caring for me. I'm unreasonably lucky. Said so before. It's still true.

    Enjoy what you get. Seize the day.

    True for Pavel. True for me.

    But Rudi is different. She isn't ready, isn't willing to seize the day. She's bound in traditions. Honoring her goddess. Honoring her tribe.

    I learnt the importance of the latter.

    Maybe she's even wiser than me. She's not willing to abandon her traditions to progress, so I told her she has to turn her traditions into a rock. She has to be that rock. Holding on. Surviving, come wind, come rain, snow or fire. Or hobgoblins.

    She ain't that bad. Shows as much potential as the others. Just was a bit too focused on using her nails. That's a true limit. I think I helped her see that it's not the nails that are the weapon - as her goddess might have it. But rather, it's her. The nails are just one part of her, a part she can prefer, but shouldn't focus on to the exclusion of others.

    It's nice to see Nicahh in the monastery. Shame about her bringing that girl. Can't stand children, stupid children. Reminds me a bit of that boy, though, she's attentive enough. Glad for that. Hope she doesn't start crying when things go wrong. Damn girls. Hope she's strong like Sabre.

  • V

    For a while he stares at what he had just then written, reads over the barely dry ink again, then he rips the page out, lights it and tosses it angrily to the side, watching the flames flicker and splutter. Pieces of ash twirl towards him, but he remains quiet, calm in his watch.

    New name
    Finally picked a new name.

    Kicks like a horse in Kara Turan.

    Tsu Ma.

    Good-bye, Pavel. May you rest in peace.

    Again he leaves the ink out to dry, staring down at the page quietly. As he looks up his eyes are tear filled, but he slams the book shut swiftly, causing a loud bang. A new man's grey eyes stare off into the distance, a glare directed at his own past perhaps.

  • V

    False friends, false foes
    She's off to get some food today, I wonder what she'll come up with. My shoulder still hurts from that utterly silly chase through the undergrowth. Kept my eyes too focused on the little thing and ended up just avoiding breaking my nose. Hurt my shoulder, though. I enjoy the reason to let her do the hunting, or fishing on her own. Just lazying around here. The sun's warm. It's the best feature here. The sun. The water splashes quietly, peacefully up the sandy beach and there's soft musical birdie songs coming from farther in the island. We haven't been bugged by anything, and should someone bug us here - No, I won't have pity with them. It's too great here to care about fools.

    Nothing really has changed, but for once it seems no one else drags us further down. For once I seem to be sufficient for her enjoyment. I wondered so much lately, worried too much, I guess. There can't be any worry here. It's as if all the bad feelings were left behind. On the other side of that ocean. Buried beneath the clear waters. That's truly amazing. The water here is not murky, or dark blue. It's a startling bright green-blue. Like her eyes. So utterly beautiful like her eyes.

    Strange things have happened, before we left what could almost be called home. I still prefer to think of home otherwise. Not a place, or house. Though those might be neat. And if it makes her happy. I wondered, for a while, if she wanted to get married, played over it with a joke. But it left a feeling of uneasiness in me. All that matters not here, though. Where there's just the sun, the sea and the Sabre. It's simpler here. Everything is. None of the false friends crop up, none of the lies. The deceptions.

    Cyricists announcing their name for a murder. That seems so unlike Cyric that it's almost as if someone else wants to claim it. Could even be the infamous Banites hoping to start a witchhunt after Cyricists. Or whatever. That'd be more likely, anyhow. Makes as much sense as to target just one senator and the guard captain. If they wanted to do that, they could have pulled it off with less cost. They sacrificed men just to get Chaevre out of jail? Someone with serious power wants them out. Someone who might have an interest in a free senate seat. And the messed up relations with Norwick don't help. Makes you wonder why the publicity, still. Could have done the murder more quietly and with less cost. But wouldn't have been able to get that big a bang. Good advertising.

    If the whole almost martial law state was intended, then maybe they should have targeted more than one senator. They were almost all there, in that room. Could have hit them all. At once. That would have caused some unrest. Just means whoever's behind this doesn't want Lavindo in control. Doesn't it? I think they just might have had the resources to pull of the coup. Just not their man in the right place. Makes me wonder about the new guard captain. Is he the right man, now? Sure a question worth asking. But not in this place. Not when the water doesn't send a chill through my bones, but instead warms me. Like the smile on her lips, the warmth of her skin. The shimmer.

    The whole Norwick mess is another thing better left behind. Eowiel and others try to keep the thing calm and get it solved nicely. But others seem to work to mess the relations up forever. Shannon's a Tormite. Torm. Kicked me out of the temple after I gave away a diamond. Even though they sell those, in large quantities, but were too high nosed to take the donation as payment for one. And then I gave thanks to Tyr, but still kicked me out. Stupid Tormites. They lack any sense. Tyr seems nicer. A whole lot nicer. Even if the idea of everything being just and right seems rather far fetched, it's something I can agree with. A dream, perhaps. To strife for? I wonder.

    My idea of justice is still a little bit different. Maybe? I don't know. I used to be unable to let go, but now - especially when I think about Sabre. Yes, maybe it's not so bad to forgive some things. But the point is that good deeds never seem to lead to a good reward. And I rather like those good rewards. Those little things. Worth treasuring those. Wouldn't want to go without them.

    Unlike Ronan. He's probably the main reason we left the crew behind for a bit. Not that there have been many meetings, many work in the past. But Ronan's keeping his contacts, his work for himself. And then expects still to be admired. And when he messes up he's unwilling to accept his mistake, instead shouting at me. Wouldn't worry me so much if he hadn't hurt Sabre through me. That's just plain unacceptable. And he has the gall to tell me that he doesn't have anything to say to me. Well, I'm glad that's behind us. A sea seperates us from this particular issue. And it's no longer just Ronan's and Sabre's.

    It seems that decpetions, lies, false friends and false foes linger everywhere lately, anyhow.

    Maybe the first time even was in Jiyyd. When the goblins put up orc dummies, making the defending legion think that the orcs are back. An old foes. Smart choice. Clever. Got to admit that. The hatred between orcs and Jiyyd runs deep. It worked well. The assault on the hamlet worked out nicely. We even were among the first to fight the real threat, oddly enough. Simply because we had been reluctant to charge out into an unknown number of foes. Into a fog hidden army.

    It ended with an oddity. Kull. Always respected his might, cut down the prisoner giant. Killed it while others tried to get information. Not a smart choice. Though easily understandable. Like the other halforc who broke half the loot because he was desperate to get into the box. Maybe it's not really false friends. Maybe it's just the wrong tools for the right goal?

    I wish I knew. I wish I had some grand insight and could understand what everyone wanted. Understand why they chose to act like they act. Maybe those other things are merely people acting more indirectly than Kull. I wonder if I can understand the path they chose. The things they do. Maybe it would all make sense then. I never was good at reading people and Sabre's taught me a bit of politeness. I don't beat up people, or rather try to, for them doing what I think is a wrong to me. No, I try to swallow it down. Accept it. A bit like Sabre, perhaps. I told her sometimes fury is right. Maybe it's time I rediscover my fury?

    But not now. Not now. The sun is warm, the water is fine, and Sabre is happy. And so am I.

    Nothing can reach us here, but a warm summer breeze, ruffling through my hair, flapping the leaves on the trees. It smells of all those strange fruits she comes up with. I just hope she doesn't end up eating something poisonous. They just look so tempting, some of those fruits. The warm sea water reaches my feet, almost tickling my soles. It's a pleasant feel and I can imagine it taking all the troubles up in that vast ocean, sucking it out of my feet and dragging it into the depth. Endless, bottomless depths.

    And here she returns, still dripping water, her skin covered a bit with spots of sand. Glittering in the sun. Like gold. Just better.

    Don't want her smile to go away. Better she doesn't read this.

  • V

    Meditation
    Attentus proves to be very insightful, and smart. Years of experience, I bet. Anyhow, I tried his way of meditating. A way that simply means finding yourself amidst all that sensorial stuff that keeps interefering all the time. Breathing. Such a clever choice. Or as he said himself, the making aware of the things you do anyhow. Instinctively.

    Inhale.

    There's a lot coming in with the air, if you let it wander through your nose you can pick out the various scents. It's now the biting cold, though. But maybe that contrasts with the thick, warm smells of booze, and vomit, the stronger smells lingering, wafting over from the kitchen. Food and drink. The smells of sweetness, of flowers interspersed, mingled with the rancid stink of sweat.

    Life can be so expressive in smells. Gold has no smell of its own, but you can detect in the way sweat pours over hands, the way the coins clink together, are rubbed in those grimy, sweaty hands that hold them. That pass them on. I have been called greedy before, and maybe I have become a bit greedy. I wonder, though, if it's my fault really. Maybe I don't appreciate the nice smells life sends my way enough.

    Exhale.

    Does it even matter? I can smell life, can taste it on my tongue, feel it fill my lungs. I held it there for a moment, regarded it curiously. Watched as it turned out to be little more than smoky figures, blue clouds dispersing with a light breeze. Spreading apart to oversized, overly important mockeries of what it truly is. And then they wandered off, drifted out on the sea, and became distant clouds. Unreachable. Unreal. Unimportant.

    No. Not unimportant. I can look at them with calmness, study them and make a prediction about the weather. Or rather about whatever they are. A man stumbling my way, he stinks of booze and vomit. He doesn't mean to attack. An ogre with his sword swinging over his head stinks worse and means me ill, usually. I let it all go, send the clouds sailing away from me.

    Count.

    And for the first time in a long, long time, I really felt content. I counted to ten. And enjoyed the quiet, the weird way the nature of reality transformed around me. The less I expect of life, the more I will enjoy it.

    Ronan expects so much, drifts, wants to be loved. Appreciated. Cheered for. I wonder if he will be happier if he leaves the Sails, or worse off for it. It's not simple like that. I agree that currently nothing is done for the Sails, but that's as much his fault as anyone else's. Maybe he won't make such a good lieutenant after all. Not willing to put actual work in to get things for the Sails done.

    Not that I'm without blame myself. I like to pretend I'm just Sabre's bodyguard, and the only one who truly tried to change that was Deacon. Deacon again. I'm neither happy about the way things are currently for the Sails, but I think I should try to do something. Not expect and expect from others.

    No matter how hard it drains me. No matter my dreams. No matter my fears. None of that matters.

    I am loved.

  • V

    Lessons failed
    Alright. That didn't go well. Tried to show her how to break steel with flesh. The sword went well enough, but then she got the idea of a morningstar. Shouldn't have tried to impress her. Still don't know what I could have said to make up for it. My hand's going to tickle for a while. That's pain, though. A good basis for learning. Pain is easy to understand, to feel.

    I've forgotten so much about pain. There's so many fine little shades. I guess you don't get to beat everything, no matter how great you think yourself. A tight lump of steel is going to be a tight ball of steel even after you stepped on it. Or squeezed it like some fruit. At least I also left a mark on that stupid thing. Kind of makes up a bit for the pain.

    It serves as a joke, too, I guess. I shouldn't have gotten sidetracked, though. I mean the important part is that through training you can become stronger. Not by sitting on the ground and thinking about the nature of the planes or some other crap.

    What really got to me was her endless giggling. I tried to teach her how to do some raw, basic movements. How to drive the air out of the lung of someone and buy precious moments by it, and she giggled as I told her to watch my still punctured hand. Damn.

    I got my revenge, though. I made her repeat the defensive stance over and over and over. Rise your arm, turn your shoulders and then put all your weight into the punch. Basic, raw power. A barbarian's preferred move. First thing you learn to dodge. Made her repeat the move and the dodge until she couldn't breathe anymore.

    She still had enough air to giggle when I helped her to her feet with that hand. Damn.

  • V

    Lessons taught
    Drelan's right, of course. Even Yolande who's lost most. Who's lost something irreplaceable through my rather foolish attempt to feel better. Even her seems willing to accept that I learnt to accept it. I close my eyes and think of the market. I can then feel the cold breeze playing around my feet again. Men and women are passed along there, handed over like a chair, well-crafted or old. It only matters for the price. And Oscura enforces a minimum price. Does that mean there's no old, no faulty wares on display, so to speak?

    I wonder what is more cruel, to force an owner to keep a slave, or to give a slave a new owner if an old one is wanted.

    It is idle wonder, now. I am no longer seeking vengeance. I occupy my mind with other things. First of which are the lessons. A student expects his master to teach them. To explain things. And to hint at more? I don't want to say such crappy stuff like my masters. That's all just bloody useless crap. No. That's not me. I don't want to teach people to find that inner spot of peace. I don't have that. Not really. I am not pulling off some balancing act on the forces of life and death, lingering in some frightfully impressive stance on the very edge of the knife called pain. Feel the pain in your soles, feel the blood trickle down the sides of the knife, and make bloody sure there's balance in how you bleed.

    Bleed too much on the side of death, and it will claim you, tug you to its immeasurable depths. Bleed too much on the side of life and you will become either screaming in pain, too aware of all the pain, or dazed, tired, comfortable? From the blood loss, obviously. Such freaky, bloody crap.

    True learning begins with understanding.

    But not of some stupid, made up sayings. You don't understand how to deliver a punch by staring for ages at some dusty old tome's drawings. That's what you can do when you know how to fight already. Then that might teach you something. But if you never, ever drove your fingers into the chest of a hobgoblin, you can't really understand.

    I might start like Dorn, even. I remember a bit of how reassuring it was to get up every day and then face the very same exercises. Of course, he used to think it enhancing to put different things on the ground. Glass shards. Little cheap gems. Wet, grimy or rotten food. Not like that. I want them to learn, though. To have something to fall back to. Something that gives them a stable ground. Footing in the lessons they'll face. Just like you can't always rely on your favourite weapon to be there, you can't rely on inspiration to be there. That's why you need a strong, stable ground.

    A foundation.

    Like you need good, moist earth to grow the really nice crops on a farm, you need to have something to plant your roots in, if you wish to learn about fighting. And if you strive to become a master of yourself, that foundation, that earth needs to be particularly good, strong, resonant. It has to fit to you, and you have to like it. A lot. Care for it. Groom it, and make it ever better. You have to do whatever it is peasants do, strengthen it with refreshing crops, find the bad weeds and cut them out. But you also need to have some shelter for it. Trees at the side, so the wind doesn't wipe across the land as fiercely. Trenches or something so the crops don't drown if there's too much rain.

    I'm starting to sound like a stupid master already. I better stop. I just need to offer them a founding stone. A strong, resilient root. Something that provides a hold for everything that is to come, anything that might come. It's not my job to make it their foundation. That would be a wrong approach. I cannot, no one can teach anyone how to live life.

    Everyone learns their own lessons.

    And I have learnt quite a lot of those.

    If I can share only one that's already a success? And certainly more than I expect. I wonder how Yana's doing.

  • V

    Lessons not learnt
    I don't know what happened in the Bodak, then and there. After Shemaright and Ginger had left. It was confusing. It was worrying. And it was disturbing. I'm just glad it doesn't haunt me. That.

    Names.

    Even celestials have names, but what are names truly?

    Some just accept the names they are given. Do not bother with thinking about them. Others pick a name to leave a past behind, forge a new future. And I've always been the latter. Or in fact, I've been a mix of both.

    None of my names so far was freely chosen. Most were given. But I didn't keep names for long. Already the memory of Pavel seems to fade, the vengeance I owe him unimportant. A fool's quest.

    I don't really know how to choose a name. No one has been able to give me hints on that. So far. I stumble in the dark. All alone. Sabre teases me with names like Horsie but I don't know about that.

    I remember the second attempt at the tower, and it feels so cold. I have noticed often before, and I still do. She has come to consider my love a given. It feels no longer truly cherished, simply expected. But it doesn't really make a difference, does it?

    I'm no longer that fool, or am I?

    Ronan worked hard to come to terms with it, and despite him apparently really feeling bad for almost killing or permanently damaging Thorn, Amy is unable to accept that. They're both likely to go at each other's throat. I was there. I felt like I had to help them both come to terms with each other.

    In that, my name choosing reminds me a bit of Thorn's. I wish to leave a part of my life behind that I'm not proud of. Perhaps I also wish to accept that new acceptance of a comforting feeling. Perhaps.

    I need the insights of a master, or the questions of a student, I think. I miss Keira. Or even Yu. I was able to ask them and they expected nothing in return, except maybe for an ear to listen to them. And I was more than happy to listen.

    I miss that most of all, I think.

    I wish for my wall. My place at the side. In the dark. Listening, quietly observing. Not feeling so responsible, not feeling the need to please this or that one. I never wanted to be in the center of attention. That's Ronan's place. Sabre's. I hope Ronan gets promoted to take Yolande's vacant place. But Drelan's not often around to train anyone to be his lieutenant. My fault again?

    Maybe if Ronan was finally promoted, I'd be forced to leave the Sails, too. He's bound to have a go at me, then. Just like all the others before him. He could be a good leader, or a horrible one.

    But it doesn't really matter, at the moment. The only one who seems to wish the Sails to get a profit, at the moment, is Yolande. All the others just trudge along like sheep. I've tried for a bit, but I'm met with nothing but silence. Maybe they're still in hiding, scared of my laughter.

    I don't want to step up and take over. That's not what I'm good at, no matter the offer Deacon made. Elusive, but eager Deacon. He's probably the one who cares most about the Sails. Who brings the most energy into it. And who really seems to care about Sabre. And even doesn't mind me.

    I could start by setting up true tournaments of the body in the Bodak, but I don't know. The last, large scale tournaments I helped set up with Sabre's help turned out to be a financial disaster. And more headache than fun, for both of us.

    Maybe I need more than to pick just a new name. Maybe I need a change in my life. Something severe. Something that will help my understanding along. A new lesson in that eternal up and down of life.

    A lesson not yet learnt.

  • V

    Lessons learnt
    The long night didn't quite work out as I had hoped, but at least it was not entirely unsuccessful. The people that did show up provided the payment well enough, though I really don't know if anything was learnt. It certainly was interesting to hear Rando's opinion on how to fight properly. An approach to fighting that is not easily imitated. But maybe one that is similar to many others?

    The knowledge that he can simply enter a fight and win it by superior strength and equipment must be very reassuring. But I lack the strength, and the equipment. Something that causes me a lot of pain. Like in that fight with Sy'wyn. Neither Ronan nor Sabre truly understood that I wanted to lose the fight. You learn more by losing, than by winning. If you win, you merely learn that your tactic was right, if you lose, you learn at the very least two things. First, your approach to the fight was ill suited, and secondly, how the other person approaches a fight against you.

    I learnt a whole lot more.

    The gap between me and others is increasing simply because their equipment is significantly better. When the people I travelled with merely possessed some non-magical armor, and simple or finely crafted weapons, I had a place among them, my perception and awareness fixing the gap between the absence of any protective armor on my skin against theirs. Now the people I travel with are really exceptionally well equipped, and some are really high in their god's favor - which makes up for a lot. Like Sy'wyn. The spells he was able to supply himself with, kept him enhanced in many ways, making myself all the weaker, easier to beat.

    But even with the ability to literally slip between places, speed and freedom of movement simply does not work as a replacement for strong magic items. Be it armors, or weapons. I have a new role in a group, now. One I had not realized fully before the meeting. It has always been a strong point of me, to go after easily hit mages, sneak up on them and then tear them to pieces. It seems that most groups have little other uses for me.

    I look forward to learning from the students. I wonder sometimes what they'll teach me. Will there be a place for them, that differs from mine? I cannot predict the future, but I know that on my own I cannot face any challenge that - as Colacarius dubbed it - is adequate. As Sabre put it, though, when someone stuffs the same spells Sy'wyn had on himself, onto me, I will be a bit more dangerous than Sy'wyn.

    The only one in the favour of her goddess, though, that seems inclined to do so is Taria, and she's now taking a break from serving Umberlee. After she died in that tower. We had to go back, of course. Had to rescue Vidar.

    We faced two of the weird creatures, creatures like Senria mentioned in the swamp. I wonder, now, if that was already the old freak there. I seem to recall she said the monster went specifically after her, which would support the claim about the freak's actual targets. Just can't remember if she said they killed the beast, which would make four of him dead? One alive? I really don't know and lately nobody seems to bother to really talk - aside from Taria who told me all about good and evil.

    I wanted to scream at her that she well knows that Umberlee isn't just called queen. And that the second part of that title is rather essential. And she shouldn't be surprised people are pissed at her for serving an evil goddess. But I can also understand her frustration. She seems generally a nice and friendly person, and she gets called names and denounced and spat upon because of her goddess. Unlike Natanya.

    Her answer to my question how she fights still is a shining example of faith. The best answer. Basically she said she didn't fight. To later retract to when the foe is worthy she lets her god take over and lets him do the fighting. Reminds me a bit of Ronan's new spell. She made it sound like she really just woke up after the fight. It's such faith that leaves me standing before my life and wonder just how messed up it really is.

    I had to use healing equipment worth way over seven thousand gold just to be allowed to crawl out of that tower on my own. Twice I was certain I was going to die. I could feel death's painful grip on my ankles, it tugged and told me in its cold, welcoming, soothing voice that it had come for me. Even now Rowan's laughter rings in the back of my head, to those words. A hiss. I expect to find a dragon cowering behind me, waiting to strike, waiting to cover me in acid and then laugh. And laugh.

    In my dreams Dorn transforms into a green dragon, and then Rowan appears and for a moment that feeling of safety is back, I look up to Rowan only to see her bones crack and mend and reform into another dragon. Hissing, they mate, then. Messily. Acid is splattered everywhere, hits me. Burns me. Consumes me. Then they break apart, their scales glittering with acidic sweat and I am born, painfully. Spring out of their beastly coupling, screaming and howling in unbearable suffering. And they give me a name.

    I will never forget the name Rowan gave me, but it is not the name I am given in the dream. I am no longer who I was. I am no longer who I chose to be, when I finally got away. I am no longer me. I am a new person, and as a new person I need a new name. One that is entirely my own. One that reflects the new freedom.

    A name fitting for a monk.