Jack's the name. Jack...
~I was very young when I entered the majesty of the Guild. No Hero here, no Skill, no Strength...you have to be special to enter the guild, possess something out of the ordinary. A talent. My claim to fame was a book. I owned a book. It wasn't the book the Guild valued, it was the fact that I could read the book. In Albion this is an uncommon trait. Crooked jaws, crooked teeth, not a fang amongst them. This truly is a curse. I spend no time training, I am left to the Library, a lowly Scribe. Mountains of paper to scawl on. How I hate it. It pains to realize once I am released on the world what little I can achieve with what I have been given. I don't want the Guild, yet it is all I know.
~Fools, all of them..Strength and Virtue. These are what Albion values, what it lacks and what it craves. What of the mind, what of Intellect? What do you call that? Surely there is more then Valor.
Still more paper to be etched. Magic was returning to the Guild. A new class of Heroes was emerging, a group of miracles they were. How he wanted to be a Hero like them, the latest and greatest. The Hope. Yet he scorned them. They no nothing of real craft. The spell, the written word, the power of the rune. All this had been forgotten after the Fall. How musing the greatest bemoan had profited him so greatly.
~I remember the day I was not forgotten. It was time to feed the chickens. They were prized poultry in Albion, soft-moist meat their teeth could sink into. This was a chore delegated to youngest ones. There was no anger, no malice, no sickness in my first deed. I kicked a chicken. It was uproarious. Everyone cocked there heads, trampled in the dirt. This meaningless act upset them. I picked the thinnest stick I could find, and got the worst lashing of my youth. The first is always the worst. Only Blades saw something in me. Where everyone else saw a failure of duty only HE saw my intentions. I wanted the bird to Fly. These animals are disgusting, willingly they go to the butcher, for a short life, for some good feed. They can fly! Why won't they fly!?
He loved his solitude. There he was free from criticism, from a misunderstanding, from Scorn. There was were he worked on his Masterpiece. Frescoes. -If anyone new, they would be burned. Paradoxically, without words he could tell the truth. This is how everyone would remember him, capturing Heroes in their greatest moments, immortalizing them in Legend.
~The sun has gone down. It is time to go to sleep. Just behind this book, wine. Some of the oldest brew I know of. I will never subject myself to that mess hall, that **** water they drink. I take a sip, just to wet my lips, a reward at the end of the day. First bitter, then sweet.
The hair curls and my ears perk up. Haza! What do you call that? I must leave now, before the guards make the round. I look back at my enclosure, the moss is receding. Anyone with the Eye knows this place is trafficked. That insatiable Elixir begins its magic. A funny thought, it's almost as if the waterfall has changed its course.
Jack never hated his lot in life. He knew. Someday an apprentice would come stumbling, drunken. He'll need a lantern to find his way, then the path would be revealed. He'll pick up a book, realize that it's not just any book from the Library. That it is the Lost Chapters, and when he pulls the thread, there he will find the Wine, that magic, that Elixir of life.
Blades looked around, his new corporeal form sinking in. What a perfect world this is. Pain, the feeling of Pain. All is not for nothing Jack, someone will come one day to finish your Fresco. You are blessed, that man is cursed. For the one who finds the truth entwined in these Oaks, that one will Burn.