Ryzom

A ragged tent composed of a few hastily stitched bodoc skins huddled outside the ranger camp's fence nearest the cluster of cheerful Tryker teepees. As it twitched sporadically in the wind, an observer might not imagine that it's inhabitant would be so absorbed in carefully stitching a pair of fine gloves.

Narael hunched over her work, completely oblivious to the harsh weather outside. Each stitch was made lovingly and precisely as she worked the material unhurriedly. Any observer might also be led to think that she seemed to find perfect serenity in her work.

Inside, however, Narael's mind was filled with grief and aching, something her calm, delicate needlework could not overtake.

-------

She had been born Na'Rael Talsin of the Hardwind family. The third girl child born to her parents had come unwelcome to her mother's deep desire for a son, and would leave them unwelcome.

Narael's older sisters were delighted at having a new child in their ranks at first. They playfully tried to goad her into joining their battle games at every opportunity. Narael, not understanding, would flop down to the ground and cry loudly. Her father, Talsin Trebor Hardwind, would often laugh boisterously at this and scoop up the young Fyros girl and bounce her up and down, saying, "Mighty warrior this one! She could slay the great dragon itself with those fierce cries!" at which the older girls would laugh and teasingly call out "Dragon slayer, dragon slayer!" Narael's mother, Triva Arcir Hardwind, was not amused however.

As the years passed Triva tried to introduce the art of battle into Narael's life. She would take her daughter out on her hunting trips and tell her the whole time how a particular blow would be placed if they were facing a homin or a kitin. There always seemed to be new toy weapons every time she returned from town. Books on combat techniques were left in conspicuous places around their home. Narael would do whatever her mother asked, but did not show any interest.

Triva's frustration grew more and more each day. Her older daughters Lehan Torei and Faren Alcar had begun competing in tournaments since they were old enough to enter. Narael on the other hand, only wanted to explore the endless dunes and sparse forest wilds. One particularly windy winter, Triva's hopes for her daughter were rekindled.

Triva had been near the house practicing throwing her dagger at a wooden target as she often did to release stress when twelve-year-old Narael ran toward her mother holding one of the combat books she had bought.

"Mother look at what I found in this book!" Narael cried out to her just as the blade made a low *thunk* sinking deep into the wood. Triva looked at the book she held in surprise.

"Gun and bow techniques... You want to work with ranged weapons dear? Why didn't you ever say so?" Triva beamed at her in relief. Narael shook her head however.

"I don't know... but look at this! It says you can make your own weapons and ammo from things you dig in the ground! Can I learn how to do that?" Triva frowned.

"Are you telling me you want to be a harvester? A filthy Tryker with your hands in the muck and dung? Is that what you want?" Narael paled at the dark look and tone her mother was giving her.

"No... I mean, is that really bad?" she asked, confused.

"I will not have a daughter who makes her living rolling around on the ground. Our family is a proud one. We have never had a crafter in the family either and we never will. Am I understood?" The expression Triva gave Narael was one of utter murder.

"Yes mother..." Narael replied weakly. Triva snatched the book from her hands. She nodded briskly.

"You will never speak of this again." Triva told her. She walked over to the wooden targed and pulled her dagger from the scarred wood. Holding the book up against the target, she began methodically stabbing and slashing through it. Narael fled back into the house.

The next day Narael was informed coolly by her mother that she would begin recieving special training from a sword master in a nearby town. Narael glumly accepted a handful of dappers that she would give him on a daily basis, every day that she was to visit.

The first lesson was horror. She returned home that evening covered in bruises, which her mother viewed with satisfaction. The second lesson was torture. The third was unbearable. Day after day she came home weary, hurting and heartsick. Finally, she decided she must do something. One day, dappers clutched tightly in fist, Narael visited not the swordmaster's training hall, but the raw materials vendor in the market.

For the next three months Narael kept up the illusion, secretly hiding the materials under her shoddy practice armor. Narael's mother praised her for coming home without bruises, and she ducked her head, ostensibly in modesty but truly in shame for her cowardice and lie. It was decided that she would visit the trainer only once a month from then on. This gave her more time to work on her secret projects in her room, but also gave her more time around her sisters.

Narael's sisters had grown jealous of the attention she was getting and the personal training that they had never received. One night over dinner Lehan casually asked Narael to spar with her the next morning. Their parents were delighted at the chance to see her training put to use, and there was no way to avoid it.

Narael resigned herself to the beating she was to take. Blow after blow rained down on her flimsy armor while she could do nothing but hold her sword stiffly in front of her, hoping to avoid a hit. She fell to the ground stifling the cries that threatened to come in front of her whole family.

Her mother and father stared in bewilderment at the unexpectedly poor performance, but they stared even harder when Faren came out of the house holding up a sheet of green fabric that she had pilfered from Narael's room while she was occupied with the fight. She had been exposed.

Narael's father shook his head sadly and looked away. Her mother grabbed the half finished shirt and threw it in her face.

"Take this trash and go. You are not a part of this family." With that, she turned away as well. Narael ran back to the house in tears, scooping up her materials and tools and throwing them into a bag she ran toward the town, never to see her former family again.

--------

A refugee's camp always welcomes every working hand and the camp near the ruins of Silan is no different. Narael found her niche there uncomfortably, having no experience at making friends, only at her work. So she sits outside the fence and buries herself in her craft, wondering what is to come.

Narael sat back against the tree her tent was tethered to. A yubo poked it's pointed snout under the edge but she quickly swatted it away, lest it steal or soil her carefully collected skins and resins.

Turning her attention back to her work, she assumed her usual unconscious frown of concentration. In one hand she held a sheaf of carefully stripped and dried sheets of bark, in the other she used a small bone needle to weave green anete fibers through the edge. She practically held her breath as she tied off the end.

Placing the pile carefully on her sleeping skins, she sighed in relief at the job finally being finished, and in dread of the first testing. She carefully pried up one sheet. The book did not fall apart, and she let out the breath she did not realize she was holding. Then, dipping a delicately carven bodoc horn pen into a small pot of ink made from lampblack, she cautiously made a small stroke on the first page.

Narael peered at it carefully for a moment to see if it would run or smudge, but the homemade ink dried prettily on the bark sheet.

A small smile crept over her face as she added more strokes to the title: Personal log of Narael, refugee.

Then, after waiting patiently for the ink to dry she placed the book under her pillow of stuffed furs, placed the cap on the ink pot and curled up under her sleeping skins thinking of things to write in the morning as she fell into the first peaceful sleep she had had in weeks.

You have a interesting history my friend, a background with a preset destiny which you defied holding a firm grip of your own beliefs, and a notion to walk but one path; your own.

Your stories tells of what you have endured and what you struggles against now, you are a strong Homin.

I am thankful for you sharing this my friend and I hope that I one day will meet you.


//Drakfot

OOC: Indeed a lovely tale. Give us more.

/crush a tear
/bow
/go back digging, muttering

Narael sits back against her tree with book and pen in hand, but hesitates. Perhaps it is the idea of marring the simple perfection of an empty page, perhaps it is the strange new experience of actually putting words to her thoughts and feelings. Steeling herself, she carefully makes one stroke. The next strokes follow more easily.

Today, I have found a family. Soon, I will have a new home.

I have come to love the sense of determined will and close cameraderie that surrounds the refugee camp near ruined Silan. This place is all the home I have known for the last three years. I have met people here who accept who and what I am without even a flinch. And yet, I shall be leaving this place soon for the unknown.

Not long ago, I started speaking with a lady named Jelathnia. She seemed intrigued with my choice to turn away from my family's calling, rather than disgusted. I find her calm acceptance and logic soothing.

She spoke to me of her guild and the strong sense of family that she gets from them and I found myself yearning desperately for it. Imagine my surprise when she actually extended an invitation for me to join them. Even though I have not yet left for the mainlands, I can almost feel their presence warming me and comforting me from here.

Yes, I have finally come to the point where there is nothing left for me to learn here. The rangers, the master trainers, even the dazed new refugees are all the family I have known for these past years, yet I now feel that there is so much more for me in the unknown lands that I will reach. There are new things to learn, new people to meet and so much more to contribute to this land that I wish to rebuild.

I will make a place for my purpose.

Narael blows softly on the ink until it dries, then closes her book with a sigh, laying her head back with eyes closed. When she next made an entry, her tent would be bound someplace else. Wishing desperately that the Kami would teleport her to Yrkanis or Fairhaven instead of Pyr, she slid the book back under her pillow and curled up under her sleeping skins, hoping that eventually she would sleep that night.

Narael had set her tent up hastily just within the walls of Pyr. Her sleeping furs had once served to keep her warm and out of the wind, but now were stacked on the ground to keep out the day's heat from the sandy floor. She wondered how many other things would change in this strange land.

Picking up her horn pen, she examined it closely. It had been cracked during her journey and would have to be replaced. She sighed over the hours of carving it had taken her. Resolutely she dipped it into her inkpot for one more journal entry.

Today has been a wonder.

Teleportation with the Kami is slightly different than the Karavan, and I'm somewhat curious to see just what their techniques entail. They are all very closemouthed of course, so my curiosity may never be indulged.

The moment I arrived in Pyr I was overwhelmed with the size and the bustle of the city. There were Fyros walking, trading, talking everywhere I looked and not a one of them so much as glanced at me. I am truly starting to believe that my sin is only forbidden in the eyes of my family... There are whole tribes of harvesters here!

I arrived here with my battle-sister Alieriea who helped me along on the island of Silan. Not long after I set down I was contacted by my guildmates and they took me out into the desert to begin training. I was provided armor and a weapon. I have found that I do not have quite so much distaste for the axe as I do for other weapons. We shall see how this goes.

Fighting there along side people who instantly accepted me as family was exhilarating. Here, any skill I chose would be seen as noble for contributing to the cause. Alieriea was also inducted into their ranks, she loves the blade far more than I ever will.

I am too overwhelmed to write longer, I shall have to hope that my excitement dies down enough to describe more tomorrow.

I am home.

Narael dusts a bit of fine sand over the ink to dry it quickly and shuts her book, tucking it in it's usual place under her pillow. She curls up on her side on top of her pile of skins and furs, dreaming already of the journey she will make soon to Yrkanis.

Narael picks up the pen she has been carving out of gingo bone. Holding it close to her face she carefully scrutinizes it, removing a tiny slice with her knife. Finally satisfied, she pulls out her pot of ink and the journal she has been neglecting. She reaches the pen toward the pot, hesitates, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before dipping it and begins making her small neat scratching on the page.

Fate is so cruel.

After all these years, after all my torment and loneliness... I have finally become a warrior.

After all the pushing and goading of my family, it was only after I found people who accept me as I am that I found the courage to take up arms. So much has been going through my head of what could have been; I can't even name the emotions coursing through me.

It's true, I have found a new family in the Dragonblades. They provide everything I need without asking anything in return, they teach and guide me when I want it; they are simply there when all I need is a friend.

Friend. That's an odd word for me. Alieriea has been the only friend I had for a while, I don't really know how to be around other people. Now that I actually have friends I don't know what to do with them. I suppose all I can do is observe and see what comes out.

I am also... seeing someone. I haven't been with anyone before except that time... I'm entirely unsure what to do with this situation. I'm not sure if things will progress from here or if I will run away from it; I am not sure I could take the risk of that happening again although I would be just as hurt if I lost one of my new friends. Perhaps... perhaps I should consider being by myself again. It was so much easier.

I must find myself before I lose myself again.

Narael drops her book and pen into her lap and covers her face with her hands. After a moment she carefully wipes away the tears and replaces her book beneath her pillow and curls up in her secluded corner of the Matisian-style guildhall to sleep.

Narael sits in a quiet, secluded corner near the fountain in Pyr. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, but her face is blank, almost peaceful. Drawing her knees almost up to her chin, she gathers her intricate Zorai skirt around her and pulls her journal from her bag. She looks over the last entry thoughtfully as she dips her pen into her ink pot.

So much has my heart gone through these past few days, and yet it seems like nothing at all now. All that pain, and I only caused it to myself.

A few days ago, Haldir asked me if I had a moment to speak to him. Unsure whether to be excited or nervous, I told him of course, I always had time. Though I would have never expected what he said to me next, he was offering me an officer's position in the Order. I was utterly surprised and thrilled and naturally I accepted. I feel a little foolish now however, I thought this must have meant that a space had opened, but never thought to see whose name had been scratched off the roll.

The next day a great many of us were hunting in the Flaming Forest, a place that Valko had shown me, when someone casually mentioned that Valko had left the Dragonblades and started his own guild. It hit me hard, harder than it should have I suppose. I just couldn't believe that he would leave so suddenly, without even saying goodbye to me. Valko has taught me so much, shown me so many wonderful places. I viewed him almost as the older brother I never had. My heart ached furiously at the news and I fled back to Pyr to pace the streets alone.

Later that night I encountered Dinrandir, who had helped me unburden my heart before. We met in the bath house and I laid my pain open to him. At first I felt so foolish for the feelings I had, but as we discussed it longer, I came to a realization. He pointed out to me that most of the pain I felt was caused by myself, and I began to wonder why I never let myself feel happiness.

He said to me, "In the past your happiness has always caused you the greatest pain" and I could not stop my sobs because he had hit upon the ultimate truth of it. With my family and with... (she wipes a tear from the edge of the page) him... I desperately fear having that sort of loss again so I run away from all pleasure.

My heart felt much lighter than it had in a long time and I thanked Dinrandir profusely before taking my leave of him. I quickly penned a letter to Valko and left it with one of the messengers in Pyr, then went off to join the rest of the Dragonblades who were still awake at the time.

I will steel my heart against fear and finally allow myself to be happy again.

Narael dusts some sand over her page to dry the last few lines then stows the book in her bag. She stands and dusts herself off, then activates a teleport pact to Yrkanis to return to the guildhall.

Narael watches the grasses near the edge of the cliff stir in the breeze. Slowly and carefully she moves closer til her toes just meet the edge. Then, gazing downward into the deeps of Atys, though she could not see the bottom, she releases a handful of flowers and watches them spiral downward until they seem too small to see. With a sigh she walks back to sit against a cliff wall and watch the multicolored horizon as she slips her journal out of her bag.

I have not been able to get him out of my mind at all lately. Still I can not bear to speak or write his name, for fear that saying it will make certain that he is really dead... However I have finally told this particular tale to some of my friends. Perhaps writing the full story here might help to ease my mind a bit more.

I lived at the rangers' camp for several years after I was cast out of my family, it became the closest thing I had to a home in those years. Still, I carefully avoided unnecessary contact with other homins there as I felt I would be an outcast anywhere I went. Thus I had no friends, no family, and no way of knowing how to deal with other homins.

A day came that I was waiting patiently in line to speak to the weaponsmith of the camp. I carefully avoided meeting the eyes of the fighting trainer as always, it had become second nature to me. I heard a voice and it took a moment to realize it was addressing me. I turned and saw a tall Zorai mage who questioned me casually about myself. Afraid of his motives, I attempted to bluff my way out of the conversation. But he saw through me to the insecurity below and took me aside privately.

He told me he would instruct me if I would serve him loyally. He gave me clothes that I would dress as pleased him. But most of all, I think, it was the fact that he listened to me, and was interested in me; I soon fell in love with him.

He would take me to a private spot south of the camp. A low shelf of rock hanging over the side of the cliffs where a single tree grew that we could sit against and talk as we watched the colors change in the horizon. I loved to creep up close to the edge and stare down into the endless depths. He seemed amused by my childish wonder.

One day, after sitting and working on my armor crafting for a while I crawled over to my usual spot to peer down... but I slipped. Not far, but my upper half dangled over the edge. He started toward me immediately. And stepped on my crafting tools. He slid and tumbled over the edge. Time seemed to slow down as I watched him, I could only stare into his eyes through his mask, a scream stuck in my throat as he fell. He seemed to say something... and then he disappeared slowly, falling out of my sight.

For a cycle I would not leave the cliffside, staring down, hoping that somehow he would come back. I have since lost this hope, come to terms with the fact that I had lost my first love. But perhaps I was only pushing the pain away, as I often push away other emotions?

I can't stop thinking about him lately, can't stop my feet from wandering to the windy edges of the cliffsides in the forest lands.

Perhaps, as Kas suggested, I will find answers in the jungle with his people. The Zorai are known for their arcane knowledge. I may even visit the Kami if it comes down to that...

I must put my mind to rest or I may never find peace again.