Preamble.
*scribbled in large letters, on some fine capryni skin*
Xyan is my name. If Palteus is indeed my father's name, or someone just played a joke, I can't remember.
My parents were lost when I was a mere boy. Mother was a good, hard-working hunter; father was a known craftsman. Both of them fell in the jaws of kitins when they attacked, and I fled to the Prime Roots with the other homins. It is there where I developed a limp after a varinx bite, and where I was left malnourished by most everyone except for a kind trykette. In fact, my height is barely better than a tryker's.
Homins finally resurfaced, and with them I did too. A useless, sickly young malos who could neither hunt nor forge powerful objects. I unsuccessfully tried harvesting, but without the strength from weapon-wielding one can't survive harvesting accidents for too long.
I took an interest in writing, though. Hanging around Lydix, the barman, had the advantage of hearing rumors often .. and delivering news of them to the right people. A limping guy could not run, of course, but scribbling a few words for an izam to carry? That was a job I could do all day. Sometimes it even paid for half a yubo roast. I refined my writing with the enthusiasm of someone whose next meal depended on it.
So that's the story, most of it anyway, of a guy who found happiness in the most unusual place of all. I have come to terms with my lack of bravery, and my lack of good looks. My bloodline will not carry on, no kids of mine will tame the Great Vastness of the Scorched Corridor. That's fine.
I am collecting words, and I have kept them safe for future's sake. My name will endure through my work. Willing homins come and tell me their stories now, just to me; some of those I write directly, some of them I put into verse. My mount is full of skins I've filled with their words, and it is a great pleasure when new arrivals sit down by the stables, just to listen to the stories I've collected.
Of course, I don't have everything blooming for me. I never worked with the Matis Royal Academy, and they never answered my asking for folklore contributions. I travel very seldom, the mere thought of teleporting makes me sick. There's so much I'm missing .. and my only consolation is that homins do come to me to tell their stories. So, listen is what I do. This is my own chest of knowledge, no matter how trivial it seems to others.
((ooc : Feel free to post any short stories you want, if they don't fit anywhere else, don't make a story arc, etc. ))
*scribbled in large letters, on some fine capryni skin*
Xyan is my name. If Palteus is indeed my father's name, or someone just played a joke, I can't remember.
My parents were lost when I was a mere boy. Mother was a good, hard-working hunter; father was a known craftsman. Both of them fell in the jaws of kitins when they attacked, and I fled to the Prime Roots with the other homins. It is there where I developed a limp after a varinx bite, and where I was left malnourished by most everyone except for a kind trykette. In fact, my height is barely better than a tryker's.
Homins finally resurfaced, and with them I did too. A useless, sickly young malos who could neither hunt nor forge powerful objects. I unsuccessfully tried harvesting, but without the strength from weapon-wielding one can't survive harvesting accidents for too long.
I took an interest in writing, though. Hanging around Lydix, the barman, had the advantage of hearing rumors often .. and delivering news of them to the right people. A limping guy could not run, of course, but scribbling a few words for an izam to carry? That was a job I could do all day. Sometimes it even paid for half a yubo roast. I refined my writing with the enthusiasm of someone whose next meal depended on it.
So that's the story, most of it anyway, of a guy who found happiness in the most unusual place of all. I have come to terms with my lack of bravery, and my lack of good looks. My bloodline will not carry on, no kids of mine will tame the Great Vastness of the Scorched Corridor. That's fine.
I am collecting words, and I have kept them safe for future's sake. My name will endure through my work. Willing homins come and tell me their stories now, just to me; some of those I write directly, some of them I put into verse. My mount is full of skins I've filled with their words, and it is a great pleasure when new arrivals sit down by the stables, just to listen to the stories I've collected.
Of course, I don't have everything blooming for me. I never worked with the Matis Royal Academy, and they never answered my asking for folklore contributions. I travel very seldom, the mere thought of teleporting makes me sick. There's so much I'm missing .. and my only consolation is that homins do come to me to tell their stories. So, listen is what I do. This is my own chest of knowledge, no matter how trivial it seems to others.
((ooc : Feel free to post any short stories you want, if they don't fit anywhere else, don't make a story arc, etc. ))
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Xyan Palteus, unofficial scribe