Post by Gravius on Jan 17, 2008 5:00:52 GMT -5
Gravius raps his quill quickly on the parchment, leaving a blotch of ink to stain a page hardly anyone would read. The withering flame from the candle at the desk reflects off the pool of liquid on the page as well as Gravius's bloodshot eyes. Annoyed with his strange case of writer's block, it seems almost ironic a scribe would have such a hard time. Gravius's anger rises rapidly as the ink spot grows in size. He so hates to be considered a contradiction. He finally brings forth something written from his fuming state.
Shocking, isn't it? "Gravius" or "Gravey", with or without the "Father" in the front, has a last name. Lundellian names are rather like that, "ius" or "us" not necessarily meaning togetherness. "Faustus" seems so cliché, like "leaf" or "root" added to the end of a Low Elven name. I guess it was just my lack of concern or for a general lack of caring, but I do have a last name. I guess it just makes things easier not to mention it.
As far as stories go, I would rather not involve anyone as to the persistence of that last name. It is a boring and tepid tale that ends with an overall disdain for my roots and that "title". And no, my parents are not dead. They are unfortunately alive, separated and living near the border of Lundelle and Andor.
Gravius crumples the parchment and throws it behind him. Another sheet is brought forth hastily as the candle flickers slightly with the action.
The tale be told, I was supposed to follow clerical pursuits. I was even sent to my neglectful uncle for a bit of polishing, seeing as though my parents would do no such thing. My parents had a child-rearing model that was built on a "hands off" approach; I thought it fell more in the "non-existent" bracket, but there might have been something there I was not aware of.
Being an only child (if it could be called that), I was left to my own devices. I made my own choices with little to no guidance since the hardy age of 3. It seems the Terrible Twos and the use of the word "no" from someone besides them startled my parents into a state of non-parenting. Needless to say, that word did not make me a lot of friends, either. I had none, to be exact. My town rather looked down on the weird, quiet kid that read his epics, arcane musings, fairy tales and necromancy books. One of the only things my parents actually did say to me was how much of a disappointment I was. It did not surprise me in the least, as they disappointed me even more than I did them.
I had a cousin that I saw once or twice in my life, but Vulcan was not a prominent figure in my memory. I had an indifferent attitude toward relatives, and I normally kept to myself and my books more often than not. I do not even remember him visiting, but then again, I do not remember much of family, especially extended family. I believe his family ran a lucrative business in wine, but I might be wrong. Such details I am not usually attuned to.
Since I was found to be arcane, and my parents were mundane, they sent me off to be with the only person that they believed could understand a "tortured soul" like mine (oh, adolescence, you cruel mistress): my eccentric and foolhardy uncle. He will remain unnamed because of my own petty dislike of him. He was trying to make a name for himself among the thousand gods of our people, and couldn't comprehend the needs of a child.
Do not get me wrong: I was not starving for anything besides attention. I could buy my own food and live relatively comfortably under my uncle's "tutelage". Being the nephew of a cleric had its advantages; being a member of my uncle's somewhat popular religion gave me access to more than just the local library, and I could have made a name for myself if I was so inclined. His name was good to use as a contact, at least. Using it would prove difficult without papers validating my claims. There were always people that were unaware of his relation that lived nearby.
My uncle did attempt to instruct me as a cleric, although poorly and with no intention of following through. I showed more interest in the practices of Noctis and the balance of life and death than with leading people spiritually. Although these practices did rub off on me somewhat, my interests could hardly be considered as divine. I was quiet and bashful of large crowds, so my contact with people suffered in that regard. He did teach me to orate, and some processional chants, but besides that my uncle gave up on me entirely and focused on his own religious pursuits.
Books at least remained a solid outlet throughout my life. Books were always there for me, and I could always turn to characters or facts. They were constant, unlike most of the people I had interacted with. Written words had become my best friends, and they dealt with my attentions far better than I tolerated my family's existence. Strangely enough, this did me well on my next leg of my journey.
I decided to practice as a Necromancer at the Isle of Lore. Sticking around and watching the mediocre gains of my uncle had ceased to be worth my time. Besides, I had already finished most of the interesting texts in the local library. (A quick note: that library was between a brothel and a bathhouse. It was converted from an old temple by the Pontifex Rex. It says a lot about Lundellian identity and disposition.)
I saved up enough to travel to Guildhall and live comfortably on the way. Mind you, this choice was made over years, so I accumulated enough. I guess my uncle assumed the odd jobs I picked up were to build character and not for any extrinsic purpose like earning money. Seven years of nothing but profit and interest built quite a good foundation. Regardless, a contrived goodbye and an assurance I would not be a financial burden anymore was all it took to get away from there. I do not think my uncle would even recognize me if he saw me today
Besides my training at the Isle of Lore and finding myself drawn to Evermoore despite my reserved nature, there is not much more for me to say. My only indulgence in my own culture was my worshiping of Noctis for a few years and leaving the practice. However, I have found my place and will continue to follow Lady Morrigan until my death.
Finally, after years of searching for guidance and understanding, I find it under Lady Morrigan. Friends and family I could have only dreamed about now a reality. I am usually not one for sappy, happy endings, I do like the way this one turned out.
Gravius rubs his eyes and swears loudly. What time could it possibly be? The timepiece he keeps in his small house strikes 5, and a stream of obscenities pours from the angry priest's mouth again. The desk is ditched for the bed, finally. The candle is quickly blown out as Gravius makes his way to bed.
Shocking, isn't it? "Gravius" or "Gravey", with or without the "Father" in the front, has a last name. Lundellian names are rather like that, "ius" or "us" not necessarily meaning togetherness. "Faustus" seems so cliché, like "leaf" or "root" added to the end of a Low Elven name. I guess it was just my lack of concern or for a general lack of caring, but I do have a last name. I guess it just makes things easier not to mention it.
As far as stories go, I would rather not involve anyone as to the persistence of that last name. It is a boring and tepid tale that ends with an overall disdain for my roots and that "title". And no, my parents are not dead. They are unfortunately alive, separated and living near the border of Lundelle and Andor.
Gravius crumples the parchment and throws it behind him. Another sheet is brought forth hastily as the candle flickers slightly with the action.
The tale be told, I was supposed to follow clerical pursuits. I was even sent to my neglectful uncle for a bit of polishing, seeing as though my parents would do no such thing. My parents had a child-rearing model that was built on a "hands off" approach; I thought it fell more in the "non-existent" bracket, but there might have been something there I was not aware of.
Being an only child (if it could be called that), I was left to my own devices. I made my own choices with little to no guidance since the hardy age of 3. It seems the Terrible Twos and the use of the word "no" from someone besides them startled my parents into a state of non-parenting. Needless to say, that word did not make me a lot of friends, either. I had none, to be exact. My town rather looked down on the weird, quiet kid that read his epics, arcane musings, fairy tales and necromancy books. One of the only things my parents actually did say to me was how much of a disappointment I was. It did not surprise me in the least, as they disappointed me even more than I did them.
I had a cousin that I saw once or twice in my life, but Vulcan was not a prominent figure in my memory. I had an indifferent attitude toward relatives, and I normally kept to myself and my books more often than not. I do not even remember him visiting, but then again, I do not remember much of family, especially extended family. I believe his family ran a lucrative business in wine, but I might be wrong. Such details I am not usually attuned to.
Since I was found to be arcane, and my parents were mundane, they sent me off to be with the only person that they believed could understand a "tortured soul" like mine (oh, adolescence, you cruel mistress): my eccentric and foolhardy uncle. He will remain unnamed because of my own petty dislike of him. He was trying to make a name for himself among the thousand gods of our people, and couldn't comprehend the needs of a child.
Do not get me wrong: I was not starving for anything besides attention. I could buy my own food and live relatively comfortably under my uncle's "tutelage". Being the nephew of a cleric had its advantages; being a member of my uncle's somewhat popular religion gave me access to more than just the local library, and I could have made a name for myself if I was so inclined. His name was good to use as a contact, at least. Using it would prove difficult without papers validating my claims. There were always people that were unaware of his relation that lived nearby.
My uncle did attempt to instruct me as a cleric, although poorly and with no intention of following through. I showed more interest in the practices of Noctis and the balance of life and death than with leading people spiritually. Although these practices did rub off on me somewhat, my interests could hardly be considered as divine. I was quiet and bashful of large crowds, so my contact with people suffered in that regard. He did teach me to orate, and some processional chants, but besides that my uncle gave up on me entirely and focused on his own religious pursuits.
Books at least remained a solid outlet throughout my life. Books were always there for me, and I could always turn to characters or facts. They were constant, unlike most of the people I had interacted with. Written words had become my best friends, and they dealt with my attentions far better than I tolerated my family's existence. Strangely enough, this did me well on my next leg of my journey.
I decided to practice as a Necromancer at the Isle of Lore. Sticking around and watching the mediocre gains of my uncle had ceased to be worth my time. Besides, I had already finished most of the interesting texts in the local library. (A quick note: that library was between a brothel and a bathhouse. It was converted from an old temple by the Pontifex Rex. It says a lot about Lundellian identity and disposition.)
I saved up enough to travel to Guildhall and live comfortably on the way. Mind you, this choice was made over years, so I accumulated enough. I guess my uncle assumed the odd jobs I picked up were to build character and not for any extrinsic purpose like earning money. Seven years of nothing but profit and interest built quite a good foundation. Regardless, a contrived goodbye and an assurance I would not be a financial burden anymore was all it took to get away from there. I do not think my uncle would even recognize me if he saw me today
Besides my training at the Isle of Lore and finding myself drawn to Evermoore despite my reserved nature, there is not much more for me to say. My only indulgence in my own culture was my worshiping of Noctis for a few years and leaving the practice. However, I have found my place and will continue to follow Lady Morrigan until my death.
Finally, after years of searching for guidance and understanding, I find it under Lady Morrigan. Friends and family I could have only dreamed about now a reality. I am usually not one for sappy, happy endings, I do like the way this one turned out.
Gravius rubs his eyes and swears loudly. What time could it possibly be? The timepiece he keeps in his small house strikes 5, and a stream of obscenities pours from the angry priest's mouth again. The desk is ditched for the bed, finally. The candle is quickly blown out as Gravius makes his way to bed.