My name… is Jerrick Macht von Awesome. I know that now. I know that better than I have ever known it before. Something important has happened, something I will never find the words to describe. Something that will haunt me until the end of my days. My dreams… are now… my memories.
I was born in Eurotas, capital of Crucibel. Son of Richtor, bowman to the Marshall General’s honor guard. Father was of the belief that if you were going to raise something to be proud of, do it right, and do it yourself. My failures would viewed as a reflection of my father’s teachings, he just wanted to make sure it was true. If I was to be a failure, he wished to know that he did everything possible to absolve himself. If I were to fail, it would not be for lack of a military-grade education. My love of the bow, I learned from my father. As my mother, Gretchen, was with her potions and scrolls, he was with his bow. They were inseparable, in time, I would be the same way. If this ever makes to the public before I grow to an old age, I only wish to let the bowyer, that fashioned me a replacement bow, while secretly repairing my shattered bow, that you have afforded me a kindness I will never be able to return… at least… not yet.
I was a miniature version of my father, I talked like him, walked like him and carried my bow like him. Wherever father walked, his smaller reflection would follow. He did not wish to shield my eyes from the truth, if I were to live in the harsh world, I would need to know such harsh realities. I’ve seen father interrogate, hurt and kill many people. Then… the trials came. I fearlessly leapt into the fire, because I knew my father would have too, and emerged the other side, and as I did, the look of pride on my father’s face, as he took the irons… and branded me for the first time.
In the academy I was the odd man out, the best archer by far, but I was always that quiet one, the one whose father is the Marshal General’s personal archer. “I hear… he can fire one arrow and put out BOTH your eyes.” “That’s nothing, I hear if you pick on him, while you sleep at night, his bow comes to life and exacts his revenge.” “That’s not what I heard, I heard if he smiles at you, you’re going to die the next day.” As we learned more, I wished for more, I was thirsty to drink from the fountain of knowledge, and learn to be the best archer I could. And I welcomed all targets… nonliving or living.
Upon graduation, we each took tests, we had to demonstrate how much we’d learned and how effective we were at applying this knowledge, I don’t know how I did, I don’t remember caring, but I was assigned to a special forces unit, Fire Storm. We were the silent ones, whenever you hear those bedtime stories of Crucibel being able to have diplomats and leaders go to sleep, and never wake up? That was us. If high priority targets needed extraction and things were expected to get messy, they called us. We were killers, we were thieves, but we were still soldiers… worse… we were still kids.
I remember, the first man to die at my hand on the field. I remember the first relic we liberated. I remember the first man to beg for his life, right before he sold out his country’s secrets to us.
I even remember… that day. We were in Balaria, send to assassinate some high ranking officials, the trap was set, when it was us walking into the trap all along. They knew… they had to know, our plan was too perfect, the only variable was us, and I would rather die than to hear a brother of mine sold us out to an enemy. We dispersed, too many of them to take out by outselves, we were a tactical unit, not a small army. I was finally cornered. I pulled out my longwsord and began to defend myself, I was bested, beaten, drenched in kerocene and set on fire. “That Crucian plague must not be allowed to spread HAHA!” , he chortled. I was wounded, battered, and bleeding out, the fire felt warm… but it too, in time became uncomforatable. And I closed my eyes… and waited to die. My bow, my life, my Firesong, shattered, never again to fire another arrow.
The miracle of kindness is why I’m still around today, able to do what I do. Part of me yearn for home, especially now. Other parts understand my mission, a mission with a success condition no less that the safety of the world.
I am glad I lost my memories. Had I retained them, I would have slaughtered my saviors, and rendezvoused with my unit, and began anew. I was wiped for a reason, a purpose, given a clean slate so new deeds can be written, and yet now, this slate is not so clean, the writing underneath has been exposed, can both stories coexist? Will one inevitably overwrite the other? What do I tell Crucibel when they ultimately find me? The Gods of Life and Death are working side by side, they are in balance, the old religion, the old teachings, live on in a boy, a boy not tall enough to reach the tavern bar, not strong enough to open a village gate, but strong enough, that he is.
A druid, oddly familiar, and her wooden companion. A rogue, gifted with a silver tongue, and steps as light as air. And finally the fighter, with sword and shield she protects, looking to find her place in the massive world.
All we are is tasked to save the world… how hard can that be?