A life of Chance

Picking up the quill I borrowed from Baxter, I ink it and begin.

It occurred to me only recently that I should introduce myself. I'm wary of committing to paper my history as I remember it. Granted, few exist who would be able to correct any errors that my memory might have, but the very thought of reliving my past makes me nervous. A friend has been trying to teach me to live for the future and embrace the 'now', so perhaps relaying my life to this point might help me accomplish this seemingly impossible task.

I'm at a loss where to begin, in all honesty. I suppose my name is as good a place as any. I'm called Chance Walker. "Chance" is not my given name, though I hope that would be obvious. Chance isn't exactly a name a parent would saddle their child with, at least not a child they liked, unless that child was an accident. Which I wasn't. But Chance seemed to always suit me, it gives some indication of my personality and how I've lived my life to this point. What my parents named me seems immaterial, since I haven't heard that name in years and probably wouldn't answer to it if you were to address me with it anyway. Besides, they always called me Chance.

My parents. Yes, another good addition to my story I think.

My father. His name was Reginald Walker, a tall (aren't all fathers tall to their children?) man with flame colored hair and beard. He was the third son of a minor noble whose name I don't recall. My paternal grandparents disowned my father when he married my mother. Having few prospects other then a very small inheritance and servitude to his eldest brother who would someday take their father's place, my father instead elected to join the Royal Guard and serve another master, Lord British. I think serving in the guard made him happy, he certainly was jovial enough at home, a kind but stern hand that doted on my mother rather shamelessly.

My mother. She was always slightly mysterious about her past and I don�t think I ever knew her name. My father always called her Princess though I'm not sure if she was truly royal or if my father just thought so. I suppose, looking back on it now, her reticence about her past had something to do with her heritage. My mother was an elf and she never spoke of her family other then to say she loved my father. It was a strange answer that didn't seem to fit the question, but my mother was naturally ambiguous. She was also petite and kind and beautiful. A healer by trade, she would laugh that it was only her skill that kept my father so hale and healthy. Likely she was right, though he wasn't her only patient. I would accompany her when she visited some of the outlaying farms around Britain. She did her best to interest me in her craft, and while I learned herbal healing, I never had the knack for it as she did. Nor did I like it, which I think was probably a disappointment to my mother. She had dreams of me taking her place one day. But my interests were in another direction, just as my brother's were.

My little brother. We called him Zephyr because he was such a breath of fresh air when in a good mood, and a force to reckon with if angered. He was born with my father's brilliant red hair and outgoing personality. Zeph was a natural fighter, and declared at a very young age that someday he would join the Guard, just as our father had. None of us ever doubted he would and we all encouraged his passion for training and weaponry.

We lived in a cozy house on the outskirts of east Britain. Nothing notable about the house, other then it's now a pile of burned-out rubble due to a pique of spite on my part. My memory of the house itself is colored by the horrors that happened there.

This is the part of my past I've been dreading to remember so I beg that you bear with me if I start to ramble.

As I've said, I didn't have much interest in following in my mother's footsteps as a healer. Or at least not in the traditional sense of using herbs and curing the sick. I was far more interested in magic. Magic for healing was fine, and my mother did teach me how to use the threads of the weave to bring comfort and health to the sick and ailing. But I wanted to learn more. A great deal of cajoling and tears finally won my parents over and I managed to secure a place at the Lycaeum. The years flew by and I was well into my studies when word came to Moonglow that I was urgently needed at home.

Perhaps I was na�ve, perhaps I was just stupid, but I never questioned the disreputable looking man who came to fetch me home. In hindsight, if I had stopped to think and not let worry overwhelm my commonsense, I know things would have ended differently. I've made every excuse to myself why I didn't wait, and none of them matter. The past is not something I can change, nor do I feel, now that I'm at this point in my story, that I can fully relive it. Forgive me, but to spare both you and myself I'm going to gloss over the rather gruesome details of the fortnight that followed my return to Britain.

It seems that my father, for a few years leading up to my return, had been pursuing the growing thief community that preyed on the citizens of the capital. Obviously, he'd been doing a very good job of wiping out the dregs of society and they had reached the end of their tolerance of him. To send a graphic message to others who might wish to take up my father's crusade upon his death, the thieves killed not only my father, but my mother and little brother, as well. I've often thought that I was not so lucky to share their fate. Make no mistake, my living was not to their liking nor was it their plan. My escape is something that to this day I don't fully remember.

I remember the blade at my throat, the touch of cold steel to my skin as it moved to sever my grip on this life. Self-preservation, hate, anger, I can't say what gave me the strength to jerk my head away from the knife as I kicked my killer away from me but whatever it was, it saved me. When I awoke in the healer's weeks later the agony in my body made me wish for death, but it never came to claim me.

The healers. They tried their best to heal my body but most of my wounds were drawn on my skin with a poisoned dagger. The finely scripted network of wounds, that crisscrossed my body from neck to knees, refused to heal by any means but time. And healing so slowly that I was given a lasting memento. Fine, red scars slowly replaced the angry red scabs and the healers finally proclaimed there was nothing more they could do for me. That's probably true, though I don't think I endeared myself to them either.

Left with nothing but a small chest of family treasures that I ratted away in my empty home, I took to the streets. My mind was filled with thoughts of justice for the dead, and revenge for myself. During my time at the Lycaeum my teachers discovered I had an innate talent for shape shifting and shadow walking. It wasn't so much magic in the usual sense, but something I could do with very little thought or effort.

It was these abilities that let me live on the streets, unnoticed and unseen by my enemies. I spent years seeking revenge, picking off my family's killers one at a time, very slowly as to not raise any suspicion. Until there were only two left. It was while watching these last two that I discovered Luck.

Luck did not fit in the mold of a Britain thief. He was well fed, clean and though he tried disguising it, very well clothed. What was even odder, he was also a very skilled thief who the thief master gave tasks far below his abilities. All this fueled my interest. Over the years, I've come to enjoy a good mystery or a puzzling riddle. It was this curiosity that turned my happy little world filled with stale bread, moldy cheese and revenge on its ear.

And landed me in Malas, sharing a house with a singing elf who asks too many questions and can't see the obvious when it's staring him in the face. I still cling to some secrets and I admit to not telling the entirety of my tale. I'll just excuse away my oversights by saying I have no wish to bore you further.

Reading over what I've written, I have to laugh at how trite it all sounds, such a melodrama of a life, but believable enough I hope as I return Baxter's quill to him

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> <I>Picking up the quill I borrowed from Baxter, I ink it and begin. </I> > It occurred to me only recently that I should introduce myself. I'm wary of committing to paper my history as I remember it. Granted, few exist who would be able to correct any errors that my memory might have, but the very thought of reliving my past makes me nervous. A friend has been trying to teach me to live for the future and embrace the 'now', so perhaps relaying my life to this point might help me accomplish this seemingly impossible task. > I'm at a loss where to begin, in all honesty. I suppose my name is as good a place as any. I'm called Chance Walker. "Chance" is not my given name, though I hope that would be obvious. Chance isn't exactly a name a parent would saddle their child with, at least not a child they liked, unless that child was an accident. Which I wasn't. But Chance seemed to always suit me, it gives some indication of my personality and how I've lived my life to this point. What my parents named me seems immaterial, since I haven't heard that name in years and probably wouldn't answer to it if you were to address me with it anyway. Besides, they always called me Chance. > My parents. Yes, another good addition to my story I think. > My father. His name was Reginald Walker, a tall (aren't all fathers tall to their children?) man with flame colored hair and beard. He was the third son of a minor noble whose name I don't recall. My paternal grandparents disowned my father when he married my mother. Having few prospects other then a very small inheritance and servitude to his eldest brother who would someday take their father's place, my father instead elected to join the Royal Guard and serve another master, Lord British. I think serving in the guard made him happy, he certainly was jovial enough at home, a kind but stern hand that doted on my mother rather shamelessly. > My mother. She was always slightly mysterious about her past and I don�t think I ever knew her name. My father always called her Princess though I'm not sure if she was truly royal or if my father just thought so. I suppose, looking back on it now, her reticence about her past had something to do with her heritage. My mother was an elf and she never spoke of her family other then to say she loved my father. It was a strange answer that didn't seem to fit the question, but my mother was naturally ambiguous. She was also petite and kind and beautiful. A healer by trade, she would laugh that it was only her skill that kept my father so hale and healthy. Likely she was right, though he wasn't her only patient. I would accompany her when she visited some of the outlaying farms around Britain. She did her best to interest me in her craft, and while I learned herbal healing, I never had the knack for it as she did. Nor did I like it, which I think was probably a disappointment to my mother. She had dreams of me taking her place one day. But my interests were in another direction, just as my brother's were. > My little brother. We called him Zephyr because he was such a breath of fresh air when in a good mood, and a force to reckon with if angered. He was born with my father's brilliant red hair and outgoing personality. Zeph was a natural fighter, and declared at a very young age that someday he would join the Guard, just as our father had. None of us ever doubted he would and we all encouraged his passion for training and weaponry. > We lived in a cozy house on the outskirts of east Britain. Nothing notable about the house, other then it's now a pile of burned-out rubble due to a pique of spite on my part. My memory of the house itself is colored by the horrors that happened there. > This is the part of my past I've been dreading to remember so I beg that you bear with me if I start to ramble. > As I've said, I didn't have much interest in following in my mother's footsteps as a healer. Or at least not in the traditional sense of using herbs and curing the sick. I was far more interested in magic. Magic for healing was fine, and my mother did teach me how to use the threads of the weave to bring comfort and health to the sick and ailing. But I wanted to learn more. A great deal of cajoling and tears finally won my parents over and I managed to secure a place at the Lycaeum. The years flew by and I was well into my studies when word came to Moonglow that I was urgently needed at home. > Perhaps I was na�ve, perhaps I was just stupid, but I never questioned the disreputable looking man who came to fetch me home. In hindsight, if I had stopped to think and not let worry overwhelm my commonsense, I know things would have ended differently. I've made every excuse to myself why I didn't wait, and none of them matter. The past is not something I can change, nor do I feel, now that I'm at this point in my story, that I can fully relive it. Forgive me, but to spare both you and myself I'm going to gloss over the rather gruesome details of the fortnight that followed my return to Britain. > It seems that my father, for a few years leading up to my return, had been pursuing the growing thief community that preyed on the citizens of the capital. Obviously, he'd been doing a very good job of wiping out the dregs of society and they had reached the end of their tolerance of him. To send a graphic message to others who might wish to take up my father's crusade upon his death, the thieves killed not only my father, but my mother and little brother, as well. I've often thought that I was not so lucky to share their fate. Make no mistake, my living was not to their liking nor was it their plan. My escape is something that to this day I don't fully remember. > I remember the blade at my throat, the touch of cold steel to my skin as it moved to sever my grip on this life. Self-preservation, hate, anger, I can't say what gave me the strength to jerk my head away from the knife as I kicked my killer away from me but whatever it was, it saved me. When I awoke in the healer's weeks later the agony in my body made me wish for death, but it never came to claim me. > The healers. They tried their best to heal my body but most of my wounds were drawn on my skin with a poisoned dagger. The finely scripted network of wounds, that crisscrossed my body from neck to knees, refused to heal by any means but time. And healing so slowly that I was given a lasting memento. Fine, red scars slowly replaced the angry red scabs and the healers finally proclaimed there was nothing more they could do for me. That's probably true, though I don't think I endeared myself to them either. > Left with nothing but a small chest of family treasures that I ratted away in my empty home, I took to the streets. My mind was filled with thoughts of justice for the dead, and revenge for myself. During my time at the Lycaeum my teachers discovered I had an innate talent for shape shifting and shadow walking. It wasn't so much magic in the usual sense, but something I could do with very little thought or effort. > It was these abilities that let me live on the streets, unnoticed and unseen by my enemies. I spent years seeking revenge, picking off my family's killers one at a time, very slowly as to not raise any suspicion. Until there were only two left. It was while watching these last two that I discovered Luck. > Luck did not fit in the mold of a Britain thief. He was well fed, clean and though he tried disguising it, very well clothed. What was even odder, he was also a very skilled thief who the thief master gave tasks far below his abilities. All this fueled my interest. Over the years, I've come to enjoy a good mystery or a puzzling riddle. It was this curiosity that turned my happy little world filled with stale bread, moldy cheese and revenge on its ear. > And landed me in Malas, sharing a house with a singing elf who asks too many questions and can't see the obvious when it's staring him in the face. I still cling to some secrets and I admit to not telling the entirety of my tale. I'll just excuse away my oversights by saying I have no wish to bore you further. > <I>Reading over what I've written, I have to laugh at how trite it all sounds, such a melodrama of a life, but believable enough I hope as I return Baxter's quill to him</I>
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