M B: You Happen Across A Small Parchment.

[wynken vanaril]

The sun’s arm-like rays have just begun to lazily stretch above the light trees that line Marble Dale Park. As you walk the paths, a cool morning breeze carries the scents and sounds of that tranquil place as it gently ruffles your hair. The sound of the wind through the bows of trees captures your attention briefly, but a glint of dancing light in the distance pulls you from that trance. Always one to satisfy your curiosity and feeling the overwhelming sense of peace within the Park, you begin walking in the direction of the object. As it comes into clear view, you see a plain parchment wafting in the wind as it reflects the light of the rising sun. It looks only slightly weathered though it has one rough edge as if it were torn from a larger volume. Though a small portion was lost to the tear, you can clearly read the remaining inscription:

aluated and reconsidered many observations during my brief time in this “existence”, and

ith mixed feelings that I have finally concluded that there is no such thing as death, life is

ly a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. Or more accurately that reality is the

gination of my consciousness. In my recent search for absolutes, I have found only one and that

I exist. This and this alone can I say with all certainty, and all else is speculation which

rely assumes the truth or falsity of subsequent presuppositions. What if I were in another dream

lity before I awoke in the wooden box? What if I am

The writing ends seemingly in mid thought, and it isn’t until you’ve read the final statement several times that you get the feeling that you’re no longer alone.

The man before you walks with an air of confidence but not arrogantly so. His clothes are woven of fine fabrics and flow easily in the morning breeze. His garments have been fashioned in such a way so as to make it difficult to discern where one begins and another ends, each moving in tandem and creating a beautiful scene as the patterns run one into another. A large but not overwhelming book is nestled under one arm, and even as he regards you, the man’s face wears an expression that can only be defined as captivated. He looks through you and not at you as if his mind is attending to matters elsewhere. You stand motionless for a brief moment and can plainly see the man’s attention come back to the immediate situation as his eyes shift from yours to the parchment at your fingertips. As he focuses on the paper his face lights up with acknowledgment, and as if he had just noticed you the man says with an amazed exclamation, “Oh! I do believe that belongs to me. Hrmph, how rude of me, I apologize, my name is Wynken. Wynken Vanaril. Pleased to meet you. However, I would appreciate it if I could have that back.”

A smile cracks his thin lips as he finishes and regards you fully once more. He obviously awaits your response…

Anyone wishing to join my introductory story can feel free to post.

[PenelopeLightMoon]

She notes his smile, but her eyes turn quickly away from him and back to the parchment pinched between her slender fingers. She studies it, a serious expression on her face. The Sun shines off her dark red hair, as she chews her lip perusing the tattered paper. She looks up and a strange smile curls her mouth,

"Wynken, you say? Seems familiar....but you Sir, do not." Her eyes travel up and down his figure, noting the careful and curious design of his garments. She rubs at the skirt of her blue gown as she does. Though cleverly stiched, and made of fine fabric it pales beside the glory of his own. "In any case you are well dressed. It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Penelope LightMoon, you may adress me as such."

The hand that holds the fabric reaches toward him in greeting, the one holding the note remains at bay. He takes her hand in greeting, akwardly shifting the tome under his arm.

"Miss, my paper if you will," he says, gesturing again to the ragged scrap of parchment.

"Penelope," she says, patting her chest with the paper in question and squinting curiously at the book under his arm. She meets his eye. "Have you not enough papers, Sir?"

Winken's brow crinkles, and huffing in exasperation he points to the note again. She smiles and offers it to him. He takes it quickly.

"Winken, take your paper and think on this ending: What if I am still in the box? Look for the Moon, Winken, and tell me your answer." She grins and walks off, leaving him no time for a reply.

[wynken vanaril]

"What if I am still in the box", Wynken quizzically remarks aloud to himself. "Look for the moon? Riddles?" As his eyes fix once more on his surroundings, Wynken realizes that he is alone again. His thoughts race in a thousand directions as he attempts to place into context what just transpired and to recall what exactly he was doing before his meeting with Penelope. He rubs the parchment between his fingers and the action floods his mind as it recalls the recent events. "Oh yes. That silly wind tore a page right out of my memoirs." He shifts his works from one hand to the other and hurriedly flips to the section where the missing page should reside. Satisfied that it is fitted securely, he speaks again the words uttered by Penelope. "Am I still in the box? Perhaps the box is in my mind, or perhaps the box is my mind."

Deep in thought and more confused now than when he began, Wynken sits silently on a bench in a small clearing near the path. His quill taps the page as it eagerly awaits direction. "Look for the moon?"

[wynken vanaril]

Many hours passed and morning turned to dusk. Realizing that the sun no longer afforded enough light by which to read and, more importantly by which to write, Wynken stretched his legs and began walking the path that would take him to the dojo of Marble Dale Park.

The constant bustle of the busy dojo is less than desirable when trying to concentrate, but it is still far more relaxing than the city streets of the Marind's Bell capital. Awed by the sights and sounds of eager adventurers pitting their abilities amongst one another, Wynken finds a seat out of the way and watches the spectacle that plays out before him. So many entities in near constant motion, can all of this really be a dream?

As you take a break from your rituals you notice the out of place stranger sitting quietly in one corner of the large room. Always ready to make someone feel welcome, you make your way over to him for a proper introduction.

Again, anyone can please feel free to make a post and join me.

[Calyx of Isis]

"him"?? Careless. I should leave it to a "him" to reply. to you.

"Oh, who am I, you ask. Why, sir, a servant of the Goddess Isis. See Her ankh on my garments, and her owl near by. The wolf is mine own. I am Her Calyx, a priestess. It was Her command that I create this school and teach Her wisdom here. You are welcome to join in our study any time."

Wynken stares openly wondering how he had not seen the wolf and the owl before. The woman, he had seen in brief glimpses through the moving bodies. The woman was of moderate stature, dressed in gauzy, flowing grey garments that flowed with the wind and did, indeed, carry the representation of an ankh in several places. She had piercing green eyes, but they seemed to shift to the yellow eyes of the owl, then the darker eyes of the wolf. For a moment there was an impression of an asp, then violent violet eyes that seemed to radiate more energy than the sun or anything else Wynken could conceive. The moment passed and then he sees only the concerned green eyes. She studies him for a moment, then return to the people practicing in the plaza. Off to the side he sees her armor neatly piled by a tent. Each piece seem emblazoned with a golden ankh.

Wynken returns to his papers and his books. I could have imagined that first beauty, he thinks, but this one... no way did she come out of my imagination. And those purple eyes, their power! Could that have been Isis? How could I possible imagine all this, the dojo, the seeker of the moon, the priestess with her owl and wolf??

He looks up at the sun. Huh? It hasn't moved. Why did I think it was getting darker? No days, no nights? Where is the moon? He stands up and looks in the Penelope had taken, but she is gone. Should I try to follow her? he wonders.

[wynken vanaril]

Left to ponder the new mysteries before him, Wynken thinks deeply of the questions elicited by his last encounter. So many entities, each with a claim to a unique and independent consciousness, and such beauty and perfection all working within a closed complex system. Can such a world be the result of a single mind? "Such a vast collection would certainly suggest a reality beyond myself", he muses. Settling on a question in rebuttal to that posed by Calyx of Isis, Wynken asks rhetorically to himself, "Do you not believe that this world had an origin? Does Isis or another within your pantheon (Mur?) supposedly posses the power to create worlds?"

Unsure of too many things, and unwilling to suggest to himself let alone a priestess, that he may yield the power of a deity, Wynken allows the moment to pass and watches the woman fade in and out of the crowd, and get lost in the ebb and flow of mock battles. He returns again to his manuscript, this time reading earlier portions that were transcribed in the days previous:

Try as I may, I recall naught of my life before the wooden box. Though I'm plagued with visions of a past existence, mere flashes of light or rather flashes of dark, if such a notion could be grasped, I have no solid evidence of any previous deeds. Malicious shadows and mysterious blindfolds are perhaps pieces of a greater puzzle. I seem left with one of two solutions, and neither are desirable. Either my mind holds such a power over me so as to obscure my own past from recollection, or my mind holds such a power over existence so as to conjure it at will.

Trying to place recent discoveries within this context, Wynken relaxes once more and thinks again on the day's encounters.

[wynken vanaril]

Still unclear about his own existence and angered that he can't recall the past, Wynken wanders from the dojo. As his mind focuses on attempting to recollect anything from his previous self, Wynken's legs carry him subconsciously east and north toward the MDA lands. He had heard much about the archives and those who tend them and had been privy to much talk about the recent campaign against the denizens of Necrovian. "An extensive history would surely give credibility to a world beyond one's self", he spoke aloud as he walked the nearly deserted streets beyond Marind Bell's capitol city.

As Wynken moved through the forest path, the magnificent building came into view. The meticulously tended gardens and wonderfully detailed architecture dragged him from his contemplation as his eyes struggled to take in all of the beauty they beheld. Stepping into the entranceway and in to the large foyer, another of Wynken's senses were assaulted. The unmistakable aroma of books, both new and old, filled the room with a sense of gravity. If importance and seriousness could be described as a scent, Wynken was certainly experiencing that now.

Drawn by that alluring smell, Wynken passed through the doorway to the left of the foyer and the grand staircase immediately across from the buildings front, and he found himself standing in the midst of countless volumes. His eyes quickly surveyed the many bookcases that lined the walls of the room from floor to ceiling. He approached one of rows and gently ran his fingers along the spines of several of the books there as he read their titles.

[wynken vanaril]

One book caught his attention and seemed almost to leap from it's place of rest, it so stood out amongst the others it was nestled with. It seemed almost as if the book had been meaning to be found, or that someone had placed it there for such a purpose. Looking around to ensure he was alone, Wynken pulled the book slowly from the shelving. It was not a large tome, no bigger than a standard piece of writing parchment that had been folded in half lengthwise. So rich were the colors of the finely woven cover that the vivid forest scene displayed across it and the spine seemed nearly life-like. The stream seemed to flow gently over the rocky ford, and the bows of the trees could be imagined to sway to and fro with the breeze. Looking once more over his shoulder, Wynken opened the cover and began reading.

The cover cracked as it turned indicating that it was scarcely opened, if ever. The pages were so crisp that the book appeared to have been fashioned that very day, but the tale it held claimed to be of an earlier age. Skimming the pages, Wynken read of a nameless hero of the Chaos Wood and the lands that would be called Loreroot. The book portrayed the man as a defender of truth and a boon to the needy. Given good fortune by the magical sword he carried, the hero would travel the lands and share his luck through charitable giving and other good deeds. Feeling a desire for privacy Wynken moved into the Study Room, and anxiously began reading where he had left off.

So enchanted was Wynken that he failed to notice when the book had turned from recounting the exciting deeds of the hero to detailing the boundless powers of his magnificent blade. Wynken shifted uncomfortably and looked up from the book to survey the room before continuing. The exact origin of the sword was neglected, but the history of how it came to the hero was discussed. Wynken payed no mind to the book's inconsistencies in time frame or historical inaccuracies. He now focused solely on one passage that he deemed of great importance, a segment that he felt would lead him to the sword's current resting place.

Visibly shaking with sheer excitement and adrenaline, Wynken surveyed the room once more and tried to calm himself as he thought of his recent discovery. He stood and, keeping his fingers on the page of interest, he simultaneously closed the book and applied pressure so as to tear the page from its backing. Confident that the page was now loose and that, even if the room had been filled with onlookers, no one would have recognized the action, Wynken moved once more to the Index Room. In a similarly masked action, he removed the page and slipped it into his memoirs after returning the volume to the empty place on the shelf. He lingered a while longer once again skimming the titles of books in various locations before exiting and turning toward Loreroot.

[stormrunner]

if you need help in getting into loreroot or need a jail break(joking kind of)

p.s. I'll asuming you made a "ah" pitstop in the pub or I talked to you just out side it

[wynken vanaril]

Recognizing Stormrunner as a frequent of the Wind and Rain Tavern, Wynken politely declines his kind gesture to help and continues on his way.

The journey from Marind Bell to Loreroot had never seemed so far but anxiety has a tendency to prolong even the shortest of events. Upon finally reaching the Maple Road and the entrance to Loreroot, Wynken once again nervously ensured that he was alone and that he was not being followed before entering.

[Tarquinus]

On the road he meets a burly man clad in blue-white scale armor. The stranger's black hair has been trimmed recently, and his smooth-shaven face bears many scars. The stranger meets his eyes.

"Wynken, eh?" the man inquires. "My apprentice has spoken of you. She likes your inquisitive nature. I have no riddles other than the most obvious: where do you think you are? What do you think I am? And what," he adds, pointing at the sun, "is that?"

The man pauses and waits for a reply. Then he says, "Tarquinus, at your service. Find me in Loreroot, or failing that, marauding in Marind's Bell." His smile is not entirely pleasant. "Do not be deceived," he advises. "Few things here are what they seem, and fewer still are the 'people' you encounter here who are what they claim to be."

"Loreroot," the man calls, walking away. "Raven's Peace. I... have a friend there. He's dead, but something of a conversationalist anyway." He nods, dons a fire-bronze helmet that clashes with his armor, and thumps his right fist against his chest in salute. "Fortune favor you, stranger... you'll need it."

[wynken vanaril]

Hearing Tarquinus' introduction, Wynken recognizes the name from his previous meeting with Miss Lightmoon (in game not in this thread). Doing well to mask his nervous excitement he replies, "Ah yes, well met Tarquinus. The answer to all three of your questions is simply, that there is no answer, for I am nowhere you are no one and that", he says mimicking Tarquinus by pointing skyward, "is nothing."
The two engage in a brief conversation before both of them gesture to end the encounter. "I hope you understand, but I am pressed for time at the moment. The three of us should meet when more can be spoken of such matters."

With that, the two depart and Wynken resumes his course once again heading toward the Oak Fort.

[wynken vanaril]

Such hasty and materialistic action is uncharacteristic for one so skeptical of what "is". Had he stopped to observe and evaluate his motives, Wynken may have recognized this contradiction. However, such is the nature of the book and the enchantment written in to its pages. So focused was he on his discovery that Wynken payed no attention to the mental distractions that he had become so accustomed to. The haunting feeling of a past forgotten was lost in the presence of this magically inspired determination.

Wynken now calmly walked the path to the Oak Fort. The uneventful encounters with Storm and Tarquinus coupled with the peace of the quite forests of Loreroot helped to settle him. Wynken called to mind the heroic deeds made possible by the enchanted blade as he traveled, and allowed his imagination to wonder about what he may accomplish with such good fortune and such a well crafted weapon. He smiled as his mind conjured images of his great renown, a fame earned through noble and courageous adventures to the benefit of peaceful peoples. The fort came in to view and Wynken quickened his pace.

Moving up to the lake, Wynken again took in his surroundings to ensure his privacy. He had made that a habit as of late, but it was one that he didn't recognize as such. Wynken carefully walked the rocky eastern shore, if it could be called that for in places it afforded him only inches between the lake to the west and the stone face on his right hand side. After some time, from the cliff high above, came the faint sound of children's laughter, and he guessed that he was below Marind's Round About. Had this been a typical day Wynken may have stopped to muse about the innocence of such a sound, but he was so close now and every step carried him one footfall farther from ordinary.

Wasp's Totem became more prevalent and the coast behind him receded as he had finally happened on the first evidence that the book was not a work of fiction. There in the mountainside was a small puncture. It was an almost perfectly round portal standing chest high as if someone had carved a window into the side of the rock. The way it was worked made it difficult to see from any angle other than straight ahead, and it would easily be missed from a distance. The entire scene was such a microcosm for mortal existence, the narrow path and the small opening into the fulfillment of dreams. However, the symbolism was lost on Wynken who without any forethought climbed head first into the opening.

After weathering the short fall, Wynken found himself in a small and unremarkable cavern. It was surprisingly dry and also well lit as light reflected from the lake's surface and onto the ceiling. On the back wall on a small alter carved into the rock, Wynken saw what he had come for. As he moved closer, he found that the sword was not at all as he had pictured it.

The blade was certainly a thing of beauty, and looked like silver freshly and perfectly polished. However, it was entangled by what appeared to be a stone vine that wound up and around from the guard. On closer inspection, Wynken found that it was neither stone nor a vine. The hilt was fashioned in the likeness of a very miniature and very dead tree, and was made entirely of petrified wood. The guard formed the roots, one of which wrapped clear around the blade. The grip was the trunk of the tree whose dead and leafless branches formed a spire shaped pommel. Having come this far and marveling at the contrasting beauty of the blade and it's hilt, Wynken picked up the sword. He felt a twinge inside of himself but ignored it as he looked at his own image reflected in the polished edge.

At that point, reality failed and all went black.

[wynken vanaril]

While asleep, Wynken dreamed deeply of himself and the world in which he exists. He envisioned himself as a mere vapor moving amongst the vast and immense celestial bodies of the universe until finally coming to rest inside the cave beside his physical body. He watched as his body faded from existence followed by the cave and the rest of the MD lands. Before long only the essence of his cognitive self remained in a dark expanse. He believed he saw a light in the distance, a mere pin prick in the infinite space, and then he opened his eyes. Awakening from his state of unconsciousness, Wynken found that he felt much better. "I suppose the past day's events had gotten the better of me", he thought while brushing the dust from his travelers cloak. "I had gotten myself quite worked up. It's no wonder I collapsed". He rubbed his eyes trying futilely to hold on to the dreams that now rushed from memory and lingered only in his subconscious.

Feeling somehow enlightened to the world around him, he desired to commit his adventure to paper, and to record what little he recalled of his vision. Wynken imagined that the knowledge gained was the sword's good fortune already beginning to shower him with blessings. However, the cave was much more dim than it appeared when he had first arrived so he once again picked up the sword and moved to the opening in the mountain. Realizing that he would need both hands to balance on the narrow walk, Wynken quickly fashioned a rough holster from a linen sash, and he placed the sword on his left hip. Once outside, he was compelled by curiosity to examine his newly acquired weapon, and he noticed that the blade was showing sines of tarnish. Possessing none of the materials needed to attend to that now, he made his way along the northern shore, away from the fort where he began and toward Wasp's Totem. He hoped to find Penelope and Tarquinus there as well as a place to sit and append his memoirs.

[wynken vanaril]

Finding the Totem empty, Wynken adjusted the sword on his hip and took a seat on the quiet stair case, and, using his lap as a table, he transcribed what he recalled of his dream into his memoirs. Considering the recent events, he couldn't accept such a vivid and meaningful vision as coincidence. He paused his writing to run his fingers down the flat of his sword, and to let his mind wander through his previous adventure. "The conscious mind is a powerful thing indeed", he thought as he traced the intricate inlays that embellish the sword's blade. "Perhaps it wishes to allow my transcendence of the laws it has established for this existence and allow me to uncover its mysteries." As he finished exploring that line of reasoning, he was filled with a comforting warmth. Looking again into his own eyes reflected in the silver blade, Wynken considered that the sword was attempting to give him reassurance.

Wynken then let the sword's end come to rest gently on the stair and returned once more to his scribing. As he smiled to himself at the thought of finally attaining the truth, Wynken was too distracted to notice as more tarnish crept up the blade.

[wynken vanaril]

As Wynken finished his writings and stood from his place on the stair, something caught his attention. The light which poured in to the Totem's entrance had moved! It now stretched its way deeper in to the anteroom that comprised the first story and had begun to creep up the back wall. When shadows and beams of light are as stationary as they were in the recent past, they become permanent fixtures, almost landmarks, as if part of nature or the architecture of buildings. Wynken would have been no more surprised had the door or the staircase moved to an opposite place within the Totem. Still alone in the building, Wynken furrowed his brow and peered up the stairs with a forlorn look of longing. He realized the implications of the light which had slowly moved as he tended to his memoirs, and knew as well that Miss Lightmoon and Tarquinas would have an intriguing story to tell about it.

Understanding that the duo were likely to be busy elsewhere, Wynken stepped into that light that now brilliantly reflected off the lake. As the wind blew across the water's surface, ripples appeared as luminescent serpents which writhed in the warmth of the sun's energy. Wynken also felt that warmth and again thought of the soothing sensation imparted to him by the sword at his waist. He felt a twinge and the feeling of Utopian perfection washed over him, and he couldn't disagree that things seemed to be falling into place.

Wynken had taken in the beauty of the lake long enough, and began making his way through the woods north of the Totem. He possessed enough navigational sense to realize that the archives couldn't be far in that general direction. Wynken was glad as the woods gave way to a slightly overgrown path that stretched to the north and east, and even more so as the familiar iron fence began to parallel him as he traveled.

[wynken vanaril]

Wynken found himself standing once again in the Indexed Room. Feeling that he had completed his physical journey, his mind now also arrived at the realization that he didn't know why he had come. Nevertheless Wynken felt that he was there for a reason and so until that reason became clear, Wynken decided to again peruse the great collection of writings. He thought to begin where he had left off and move to the location of the enchanted book from his previous visit, but as he moved, someone entered the hall from the back room. Wynken quickly identified the man as an archivist, and one that he had seen before though he couldn't recall his name.

Although the man wore a courteous smile, a guilty feeling of fear crept through him as Wynken thought of the torn book that rested on the archive shelves. Given in to his conscience, he nervously shifted the sword and tried to position himself so as to inconspicuously shield it from view, but in so doing, lost hold of his memoirs which spilled onto the floor and echoed throughout the vast room. The two locked eyes as Wynken blew a long and exasperated sigh before kneeling to recover the contents of his loosely bound treatise. Logan Marquis was quick to help, and the two shared a brief introduction. Wynken blushed and silently cursed himself for being so foolish as he noticed that Logan had taken an interest in one of his writings. "This is very insightful", Logan said with a gleam in his eye. He studied the page a moment longer before handing it back. "I hope you don't mind my being so forward, but we have a pressing need for writers of your caliber. If you would be interested, perhaps I could arrange a meeting with yourself and Renavoid, the Master Archivist."

Wynken again sighed but this time with relief. Though he enjoyed writing, it hadn't occurred to him that he should seek to join the ranks of the Archivists, and he couldn't begin to fully consider what such a position may do to spur his quest for truth. A familiar twinge of warmth ran the course of his spine and Wynken considered that the blade was engineering yet another one of its blessings. He grinned and toyed with the sword's hilt as he followed Logan up the stairs and into the audience of Renavoid.

[wynken vanaril]

How tenable reality and how fragile the mind that, in a moment, all perceived truth could be admonished; that one could find themselves in a dream world, plagued by reveries and memories of events that had never transpired, or simply awake without any recollections at all, but now my past is once again made clear to me and I am myself. All that remains of my former self are the tattered scraps of some rambled writing and this tarnished sword.

[wynken vanaril]

The inhabitants of this realm seem to know me by the name of Wynken, though I recall naught of them. The torn pages of this journal are illegible. The writing is my own but I have no memory of it, and this sword chills me to the core though I dare not part from it. Such a twisted and ugly weapon would be considered unusable by most but I feel as if it is an extension of myself, and I wield it with power and precision. So angering that I struggle to know who or where I was one year ago but recount vividly the distant past that has made me who I am today. Those harsh realities, lessons well learned in my youth. I suppose I can thank my father for that in the least. He got his in the end, although those early years spent at his manor were not without benefit, that mansion that doubled as guildhall for The Hand of Azrael. They were a band of mercenaries, hired killers really, few in number but most efficient. Daggers were forced into my hands as soon they could adequately wield them. I was no more than six years of age when I received my first lesson in armed combat, and the small scar on my right hand still bears resemblance to the teeth marks from the rat in that musty celler. One of many trials I would endure with little gained other than personal development and a growing need to earn the respect that my father carelessly withheld.

I would not have survived my adolescence without the training I received under the weapon masters and thieves there, as I was expelled from the hall upon my thirteenth year. Told by my own father to not return until I could do so undetected, I took to the dank and impoverished streets of the city under threat of death at the hands of my father's cohorts. Employing the skills I had acquired, I carved out an existence in the city's vicious underbelly, taking what I needed to survive from those unable or unwilling to keep it from me. Though existence became easier with the passage of time and I began to settle in to the routine of my life on the streets, the deep seated hatred I harbored for my father was never far from my mind. I watched as even wretched and destitute children played games and tarried in the streets, enjoying their existence in the bliss of careless freedom. As I looked on them with jealousy and rage, I couldn't help but feel comfort in that my existence was real, and that their happiness would fade leaving nothing to show for it.

By the age of sixteen I had grown in confidence as well as ability and began to indulge in the finer things. Rumor of my talents spread through the city's network of underground and less than legitimate proprietors, and I began filling their contracts. However, with success came a level of fame that is unbecoming of beings who make their existence by remaining unseen, and numerous times the undiscovered or unsuccessful attempted to claim for themselves what was mine by putting a dagger into my back. It was also not uncommon for those few who had established themselves as hired thieves, assassins, or informants to compete over contracts or bounty, and on one such occasion, I found myself defending against a member of The Hand of Azrael. We came together on even footing, and through the engagement he did not recognize me, though I did him. I reveled in his astonishment, eyes widened, as I whispered my name into his ear while the last of his blood ran from his throat.

I had thought many times before of the moment that I would finally reenter my father's house, but that incident bolstered my resolve and signified in my mind that I was now ready...