Recollections of Wilvamair’s past, scrawled into a journal. ENTRY I - 12th August, 309AC People tell me I should keep a journal. It was an idea I’d always dismissed out of hand. Didn’t think I needed one. But there are times when it is best to listen. Maybe this is one of them. ̶I̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ I had always hated boats. From my earliest childhood memories of the winds and turns of the Schön, to memories more recent of seas darker than dark. When I was young, it was the incessant rocking and churning that drew my ire. When I was a little older, but no more the wiser, it was the knowing that my fate was in the hands of a force far greater than what I could repel. A box of wood between me and certain doom. An understanding that fate would repay me for, in time. The dates elude me, but I remember most else. I can’t have been older than ̶f̶i̶f̶t̶e̶e̶n̶ fourteen. The journey was a hallmark for me. My first foray into unknown land, and where I would learn the source of the reputation that many a Ward of Fae had acquired as part-Knight, part-a̶d̶v̶e̶n̶t̶u̶r̶e̶r̶ swashbuckler. A balance I saw most keenly in my greatest friend, and mentor. Seafaring was no matter of terror for the Ériunin. Where I saw a box of wood, he saw a creature to be tamed. And where I saw calamity to be resigned to, he saw a fate to defy. A strong tailwind from the west had shortened our journey by some days. Cilian was in a good mood- better than usual. I think that helped to put my mind at ease. I begin to wonder now if mother ever stepped foot in the north. The things she spoke of, then and after, seemed otherworldly to what I encountered. Tales of barbarians and blackened trees, of secret songs in the woods whose sound lingered like plague. Perhaps it was to dissuade me from accompanying Cilian- a means of protection. Perhaps it was just ignorance, or knowing all too much of the turmoil that would climax in the years shortly after. A question I do not want the answer to. I saw neither barbarian, nor blackened tree as Cilian guided us into port. Above my head, I saw the same sky graced to me in Kintyr. The same stars. In the distance, I saw houses of wood and turf, and the smell of w̶o̶o̶d̶s̶m̶o̶k̶e̶ wood smoke came soon after. The trees were a little darker, perhaps. A little smaller. Underfoot, I felt p̶e̶b̶b̶l̶e̶s̶ smooth pebbles. Then, the relief of frosted grass. As much as I might have expected to be in awe of the strange new northern land I found myself in, what I saw and smelt and heard weren’t otherworldly, or particularly strange at all. I think it is what I felt in my heart as we stepped onto the docks, and Cilian w̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶e̶d̶ sauntered forth with his typical swagger. That is why the memory remains with me. Children far younger than I was at the time ran through the streets, trailing us as we began on our journey down the gravel path. The townspeople watched as they laughed and tugged on the grey cape that Cilian insisted was a cloak. A rehearsed game, it seemed to me, and one they’d played before. He was known to them- more than known. Welcome. No weapons, save for that which Cilian and I had brought. No armour. Nets on poles took the place of the spear. Fishing reels took the place of the sword. Townspeople waved, and Cilian waved back. We followed the path until its end, bringing us before a turf house that seemed identical to the ones beside it. Identical, save for the g̶r̶e̶y̶ white fish painted above the doorway, and the runes engraved proudly into the wood around it. T̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶o̶o̶r̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶o̶p̶e̶n̶e̶d̶ ̶b̶y̶ ̶a̶ ̶ The door swung open as we approached, greeting us both with a blast of fireplace heat that ruffled my hair and swirled Cilian’s cape. We wasted no time in entering. Peace. That is what I felt on that dock, and in Cilian's second home. The faces of those inside have faded from memory, now. The voices, the music. Maybe not the emotion itself, but the promise of it. A glimpse into what it could be. I knew then, even as one so young, that I could never be the warmonger that Kintyr demanded of me. The Breizh that my mother expected, or the warfighter that my father once was, and that my brother would become. It isn't something that I ever worried about. I could tell myself what I was, and that would be enough. One fighting for peace. But I have lost that vision, now. How can someone claim to fight for peace, if they have forgotten what peace looks like? Feels like? Cilian never lost that vision of peace. I think, perhaps, that is why I chose this to be my first entry. Trying to understand how he kept it close to heart, despite everything. How he shouldered that burden with a l̶a̶u̶g̶h̶ joke and a smile, instead of silence and brooding. And the Gods know I should smile more. Quite literally, even- given what the Prince Marshal once said to me. Baby steps. I will try to write more, soon. Maybe tomorrow. (OOC: I can't really be on very much recently with my 4 day a week University schedule, so I'm going to try and write some journal entries from the first-person perspective of Wilvamair, in a bid to continue his development while I'm unable to roleplay as actively as I'd like. Hopefully some of you enjoy reading it.)
