Chronicler

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ripshaw
Posts: 32
Joined: Sat Apr 26, 2014 2:09 pm

Chronicler

Post by ripshaw »

Weeks ago....

Sitting with his feet dangling off the end of the pier in Devardec harbor, Ripshaw contemplates his life. Being older than most, he found it extremely difficult to connect with people on any real levels. Love, relationships, children. All things the ranger gave up on years ago. It always ended in pain, one way or the other. A soldier cant afford any ties. Anything that could effect his ability to act when the time came, any possession that could be used against him or any luxury that could soften him against the rigors of war are the first things they strip you of during training. They replace it with routine, duty and work. Its for the best, at the time. But what happens after? Whats left for a soldier, when war is over? Years upon years of war. Four centuries of watching the world change while he played soldier. Four hundred years...

Shifting his position from one cheek to the next, the ranger adjusts himself so he is leaning his back against a mooring. Metal warm from the sun counters the coolness of the sea breeze across his face. He allows himself a moment to enjoy the sensation, then folds his arms across his chest and resumes his contemplation. The Temple of Fate and Silk as his god. A new path in his life. To be honest, he has needed a new path for some time now. Folks were getting tired of his brooding. Tired of his tales of times gone by. In fact, if Fearecia and Sylvanna had not convinced him to try something different; Rip was not entirely sure he could have held on. War was horror, fear, anger and spontaneous chaos at once. But for all of that, war was exciting and there was always something to do. Now though, Ripshaw didnt want to be a soldier anymore and in the absence of his old life, it was quiet. He struggled to stay busy daily and above all else, he was bone deep lonely. How does one tell anyone these kinds of things? How soft would he appear?

A sudden snort of disgust dislodges a perching gull from its post. Screeching its outrage it flaps away. Rip resettles himself and thinks on. Mind on fate again, he goes over the prominent questions. Is fate a power? Is it a preordained destiny written out for each person, or the story left behind in the wake of a persons life? A line of thought that is circular in nature and always leads you back to the first question. Can fate be controlled? Every decision we make alters the fate of the world around us. So surely we can control our own lives. Yet, accidents happen which alter your plans. Fate intervening? And we find ourselves back to the original questions.

Sighing in frustration, the ranger lets himself gaze around the harbor. Looking out at the two docked warships, Rip smiles. He had built those ships. A first step upon his journey of change. One that didnt last very long, yet left him with knowing he could accomplish anything. Admiral Ripshaw, how absurd. Laughing out loud, he draws a few eyes. Sitting alone, he assumed they thought him mad. Shrugging it off, he tries to get his thoughts focused. He was all over the place today. Again, he settles on fate. Too many variables in the world make it impossible to control it. Suddenly, Rip sits up straight. He had it! One constant of fate, the past. Every person has a story. In a world full of heroes, there must be some amazing stories out there. His alone spanned generations. Standing up, he began moving absently up the pier. Mind suddenly full of ideas, he was giddy to get started. He was going to start Keeping histories. It would be a good place to start in his understanding of the path. Resolved, Rip hurries off into the heart of the city.

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