Ateuchus I

I am no scholar.

The words I know are those of power over will and flesh... not the arcane twists of ancient tongues but the clear, ringing tones of war cry and command. So expect no masterpiece of literature. I've broken three quills already writing this. When is a feather like a practice maul?

I suppose, as with all things, it is best to start at the beginning. I was raised, and presumably born, along the banks of Elon under the shadow of the Jahia Bluffs. These were harsh lands, unyeilding and severe, where youth was no escape from labor and the freedoms so enjoyed by children in the wealthier provinces just upriver a bitter dream. There are the tasks that strengthen limb and back and there are the trials that test the spirit. To an overgrown boy with pale skin in that sun-darkened place, there was no solace from either. My stature, much as it amuses Malach to no end, served me well then and those that endlessly sought to torment an outsider oft found the prey not so willing. But write no sorrowful songs of broken youth, for this was the forge of fist and rage where respect was hard-won and loyalty bought in bone and blood.

Blood. I suppose the word cannot be mentioned with reference to the father to whom I owe so little and yet, in a way, so much. He was around more than I would have expected from his demeanor. A quiet, distant man of brooding brow. Malach speaks of other faces and in this he is correct, but I remember the face of my father...

Bah. Another quill broken. Perhaps some time in the yard will ease the ache in my fingers. And to think some might actually enjoy this...writing.

I am no scholar.