Kickoff written by rudranshhhh

A short part of many stories.

I'd like to edit it to death. still enjoy!


I first saw Lasker standing and giving errands to the sentry and freeman along the edge of a small cliff, near the bend in the road that I was walking on.
I remember looking at his stature with sharp body lines against the purple sky, an endless sea spreading before us creating a harmony of pieces bonded into the shades of an image the moment had enjoined for, and thinking all the while dipping and swimming across the sea. An itchy longing for forbidden Isles and never seen land past the stoic man that stood with his chin high-up and hands clasped at the back.
I still remember his spreading gaze sweeping across me.

My story starts with my learning to count fingers on both my hands to when I was old enough to be able to tell a Castellan from a Priest, to know a Church from a Ghetto, and be able to pick scented mayweed from Paris daisy to strawflowers.

It began with the time when I
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could tell what makes a thing sour and what is it at the end that transitions it into bitter. When I could observe a speech and tell whether a man was being subtle or when he was merely rambling. When I could mark oceans from seas and pick the right herbs from the lethal and concoct them into the useful ones. When I could tell the skiff that would stick with you and which one would drown you into the night and what indicated a bad elliptic spring when a nobleman travelled in ignorant inconvenience. It is about the time when I used to run past the docks, to the rainy pastures and into the vineyards and was allowed to be lost once in a while.

When I still could have those rich nights where I lay on my mother’s lap late at night while she sang a poem to me in the hearth of fire.

My name is Myissa Lanthe, and throughout my life I have earned myself many names. I’ve been called Nightbearer to the tear of god, been accused of insuperable wickedness and called Lanthe the loathsome. While by
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some I have been hailed as The selfless Myissa, the god long lost and returned, that stopped the biggest wave humanity had ever witnessed.

If only people knew that me and god have always trudged up entirely different paths.

I have seen that history creates too many people out of one known and none about the unheard. Some have lived one life and been accused of living many. And while a thousand soldiers would die and be left with a little more than a word on lips of their lovers. History can be relentlessly unforgivable.

People have come and died but the caravan of time has never stopped. Rolling and circling ever so persistently.

Or maybe it never had a beginning to have an end.
I cannot tell. At times I catch myself thinking their words have prophesied my whole life or maybe I am merely seeing to their stories and trying to fulfill them to be what they think I am. But I began just the way I did. I saw the tendrils of smoke and the scent of fire when it was too late.

I lived with my
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mother and father in one of the far outer-lying villages of Balthrone. If one were to take the western passes through a carriage, it would have taken almost half a day to reach the next town from our village.
My father named me after his dead friend. He could take things a little too much at heart. My mother told me he was a sore loser but I admired my name nonetheless.
It meant ‘to seek’
My mother, I know, was also quite fond of my name secretly. I was the third child to her. I remember my father telling me how she’d had to borne me in her womb for long months. My mother barely ever spoke on the matter. She was a dye worker, and I never saw her complaining about anything for her long working hours
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