Wednesday, May 25, 2005

In the Beginning....

Where to begin? I suppose the best place, in order for you to get the entire picture, is simply at the beginning of my existance. You need to know who I am, in order for my lessons to have any meaning to you.

I am Lovan. My last name, though I seldom used it for almost two centuries, is Dimitri. I was born on a world we call Aerth. Now, before you groan at how similar that name is to another world, let me assure you that there is in fact a reason for the similarity. They were once one in the same. But, that is another story for another time. This story is about me, after all.

I was born in a small border town on the edge of civilization whose name is lost to me now. It is difficult for me to remember my own beginnings, as it was so long ago. In any case, I do not remember my parents. What became of them I never found out, but then I didn't really care, either. I was raised by a man who claimed to be my uncle. Whether he actually was I still do not know to this day. He was a mercenary by trade. Often he was away for weeks or months at a time, and I saw little of him in my youth. When he was away I was cared for by the various women in town - the barmaids, shopkeepers' wives and daughters, whoever was available. I never grew close to any of them.

My uncle finally became a part of my life when I became old enough to carry weapons. At first that's what I did, carry his for him, and clean them. Eventually the time came for him to teach me to use them, and then I finally had something to spark my interest. I found that I had a natural talent with the blade, and with my uncle's teachings I honed those skills until finally I was able to go into actual battle with him, and begin earning my own way in the world.

Battle is not an easy way of life. When one first enters this world, the carnage and destruction can be almost overwhelming. One's first foul inhale of the stench of a battlefield is something never forgotten. The sight of rivers and lakes of blood, of bodies mangled and decapitated, of limbs without owners, of the flies and maggots feasting on them, often weeds out those not suited for such a life. Somehow, those things did not weed me out. Perhaps it only portended the things to come.

My uncle and I earned a living together in this life for two years. Then he died. The life of a mercenary is seldom long, and my uncle had lived longer than most. I did not actually see him die, but I saw his body on the battlefield after it was over. I was alone.

I surprised myself. I was never really lonely. I traveled a lot, from town to town, battlefield to battelfield, fighting for whoever wished to pay me. Every town had women willing to warm my bed for me for a night if I wished. I was detached from the rest of humanity around me, I had no ties to anyone or anything. It was to be my downfall, what made me the perfect prey.

Monday, May 23, 2005


The quill moved along the paper, leaving a trail of ink in its wake. The soft scratch as it moved was the only sound in the otherwise silent room. The hand holding it was steady and strong, its skin smooth and unmarred, untouched by age. The arm was well-toned, muscular without being muscle-bound. The shoulder was hidden under a wave of silky raven hair that caressed a neck and hid an ear. A stray lock of the raven mane slipped silently free to swing before a piercing grey eye, an eye whose depths held a wisdom and an age that belied the youthful appearance of the rest of the body.

The quill paused as Lovan raised his free hand to wipe the errant strand of hair back into place. He turned his head, listening to the silence. The baby was still asleep. A small smile quirked the corner of his lips.

He turned back to his work, the quill dipping into the ink bottle before continuing its journey along the paper. Before him took shape a journey of a different kind, his own personal journey.