Imagine a writer posting writing on their blog...
Rainstorm. Hero. Slayer. Raine. Raven. Ace. Riptide. No one can quite decide what my name is around here, though everyone seems to think theyâve correctly captured who I am
Have they? No, not quite. No one hasÂ
I suppose that once, someone did, but those times exist only between the notes I play on my aging guitar and stolen moments in the sky. Now thereâs only my masked face, splintering stare, reputation, and the glint of my sword. Not that it matters; being a rogue vigilante demands a certain amount of mystery, and this is the only realistic way to keep anyone from bothering me. Solitude and stagnation were never options.
Those in Dragonhall that think theyâve figured me out never fail to amuse me. Guesses at my name and attempts at drawing me and even assassinations only fuel the need to keep what âHeroâ truly is safely hidden in a locked, reinforced box and hidden away from the world. At the end of the day, all anyone needs to know is my âjack of all trades, master of deceptionâ title.Â
Throwing everyone in Dragonhall a bone every once and a while seems to satiate their seemingly endless need to crack the wall of mystery Iâve so carefully crafted. A song, a whispered tale lost to the wind, even a forlorn look cast over my shoulder; none of it ever adds up, but it does what it needs. Theyâre like dogs, following each loose end to its frayed tip and then right back to the source, repeatedly, and yet never realizing that not a single one of them are wolves. Only dogs, destined to chase a ball whenever oneâs thrown.Â
At the end of the day, they always forget that thereâs poison in my blood and deception in every seemingly clear intent. I am a halfblood, after all; we do what we need to survive, even in a place like Dragonhall. No bone is without the inevitability that comes with becoming entwined with my string of fate.Â