My Name Is...
At twilight, Rathorin enters his apartment from long and numerous hunts, slogs over to his weapon rack and hooks up his spear just above his katana and bow. He wanders to his desk and slumps onto the chair. With a heavy sigh and fingers combing through raven and crimson locks, he took a few moments to recollect himself. On his desk, a pair of holders housed several books with empty spines. He plucked the furthest book on the right and set it down in front of himself, flipping to the next empty page which was about two-thirds of the way through. Taking up a quill, he begins to write. Â Â Entry 438 Â Â Â I must thank myself for making these entry numbers. My days are slowly blending together. Iâm not even sure which moon cycle Iâm writing this in. Iâve lost my wife, my friends, and I havenât talked to or seen Aesa in who knows how long. Iâm starting to forget who I am and what Iâm fighting so much for. Am I trying to forget? Trying to stay sane? Maybe Iâm doing it so that I can remember. I canât say for sure. Whenever I close my eyes to rest all I see is that figure. The other side of me, chained up and those piercing red eyes glaring at me. Is that what I look like to other people? The chains have been holding, but theyâre starting to rust and break. My name is Invalmos Kha. Heâs going to get loose eventually, Rathorin is, and Iâm starting to wonder if thatâs such a bad thing. Would it be better to go back to being a blade for hire? Again, I canât say for sure. I talk to him every now and then. Like Iâm trying to keep him up to date on whatâs happening as though he didnât know already. Heâs me after all and I sound insane. My name is Invalmos Kha. Iâll have to think on it though. I think the fighting is making his grip stronger so Iâll probably take a break on that. For now, I have to get some sleep. No rest for the wicked as they say. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â My name is...
Closing the journal, he returns it back into its place and a wide grin crosses his lips. He stands from the chair and makes his way to the bed, flopping down onto his back with an arm across his eyes. âNo rest for the wicked? What poor choice of words, Invalmos. Iâm going to sleep like a baby. My name, after all, is Rathorin Locklair...â























