#dragonhall

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 they’ve correctly captured who I am

Have they? No, not quite. No one has 

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 there’s 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 they’ve 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 ‘Hero’ 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 “jack of all trades, master of deception” title. 

Throwing everyone in Dragonhall a bone every once and a while seems to satiate their seemingly endless need to crack the wall of mystery I’ve 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. They’re 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 one’s thrown.