Scribe
- Reads 21
- Votes 5
- Parts 1
Ongoing<5 mins
Last published Tue, May 24, 2016
Walking. Running. Panting.
I am a scribe. Not only must I write endlessly about what I see and experience, but I must also deliver to kingdoms far far away. Granted it is just Scotland, there really isn't that great of a distance between places.
We invented the phrase don't shoot the messenger', however if they always listened I wouldn't have gotten the job in the first place.
Writing. Lots and lots of writing.
The thing about scribes is, they know everything. This gives great opportunity for other kingdoms to initiate them as spies. As I said before, lots of writing. But can you write too much? Can you know enough, or should you acquire everything.
This is a scribe's tale.
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The Before. There was a time before, a time of a great war, a time there were two kingdoms. War rampaged on the heels of jealousy bred by men's contemptuous hate and fueled by their desire to take what wasn't theirs. Two Kings fought wanting what the other had, holding the Bythe's fire at the tip of his knife The King of the South snuffed it out stealing with him the Jewel of the north. I am Bellary. I live with the tales of the before filling my dreams, and ringing in my ears, I am known as the Silent Princess of Loch. My voice was taken from me by force, an assassination failed. Left with the scars of my abusers to remind me and everyone daily. Haunted by nightmares, and faceless voices calling out to me I hide away in the walls of the castle, under the excuse that it's for my protection under the rule of my neurotic father and overprotective brother I have never tasted freedom. My father's constant fear that the men attacked me would be back to finish the job. I was insecure, maimed, and riddled with shame. The itch in my brain that I was missing something buzzed in my brain, there was a fire in my veins that called to be lit. With no words to speak I filled the void with the written word, I devoured the written word like a lioness hunting prey, and studying languages became my lover and I worshiped them passionately. Being a walking ghost among my kingdom, I heard words drifting on the wind, dripping from the walls and floating off of people like a permeating perfume. They were whispering warnings, the north was awakening, the north was angry, the north was coming. The north was seeking, the north was calling Ophelia home.
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