*A letter, written on scrap paper recovered who knows from where. The ink struggles to take hold, it too old and of terrible quality. The handwriting is feminine and graceful, but rough and simple, typical of someone who has not received a deep education in their youth.*
Greetings to you, my old friend.
It is the first time I write a letter, and I have decided to dedicate it precisely to you.
I'm writing you this because I want you to know my story, what happened to me as I was growing up.
I need you to know that I existed, always beneath your cruel gaze, yet probably unseen.
My life has not been easy, but by now you should know this.
I am writing this letter to you with the little paper I have left because I feel it is my duty to do so. I wonder if you will ever read it.
I grew up on the streets of the Dock Ward, one of the poorest and unhealthiest areas of the city. For years my home was the Starry Cradles Orphanage.
Yes, I am an orphan. A half-elf orphan unaware of who her own parents are, whether she has brothers or sisters, apart from the countless ones grown up together with me in that orphanage.
But those were fake and cruel, selfish brothers and sisters, who never wanted me, who mocked me for my pointed ears and treated me like an outcast.
I never had a place, a role in that orphanage.
I wonder if you had ever noticed me during that time, if you had seen my loneliness, the tears streaming down my face at every stone they threw at me. If you knew that I suffered every day wondering why my parents had abandoned me. But probably you were too busy with other things to notice the existence of a small and sad half-elf girl.
Growing up in an orphanage run by the Selunites was exhausting: all those rituals, those ceremonies, those prayers to the Goddess every day. Some Selunites were kind to me, despite my difference, despite my origins, others were not.
Although I was not an easy child, I admit it.
I was an unmanageable pest: I ran away every time I could to hide in the streets or on the rooftops, I stole bread and sweets from nearby bakeries, once even a shawl from an old lady, I cut my hair short to look like a little boy and fought soundly with the bullies.
I lost every time, as strength and the ability to brawl were never my thing.
And every time I returned to the orphanage, of my own free will or forced by someone, I was punished. Sometimes a small, wooden whip, sometimes I sat alone for hours in a corner, sometimes even on my knees.
They were unbearable, horrible years. I was too small to understand the world, to be able to face it and find a little space of my own.
The days were marked by prayers to Selune, horrible-tasting meals composed mainly of boiled turnips, me running away every time I could, punishments for my excessive liveliness, and yet more prayers to Selune.
Fortunately I met a good friend, maybe you remember him.
He was kind to me, he didn't seem to care about my impure blood, mixed with the elven one, about my origins even more modest than his.
We played together all the time, running through those smelly streets, trying not to step on the beggars and the dead. Every now and then we ran away to the richer districts, playing and pretending to be the children of some noble or wealthy merchant. Pretending to be someone else, to have a better life, to be adventurers and fierce warriors capable of facing dragons, that was our favorite game.
He also protected me from my bullies, both on the streets and outside the orphanage, and he had the strength and skills necessary to do so.
And with what ferocity he did it, even using his teeth if necessary. In a short time, few dared to lay their hands on me, and usually they were the ones too big and mean even for him.
Vaerith, my first and only friend.
During that time we both learned that fleeing can also be an excellent strategy.
I grew up faster than I thought. In a few years I became a young lady, graceful and delicate, finding myself by then unable to disguise myself as a boy.
But no one ever wanted to adopt me. In all those years, stepbrothers and stepsisters from the orphanage came and went at alternating paces. Not that I cared, they hated me, and I hated them.
But no couple ever showed even the slightest interest in having a first meeting with me, let alone adopting me.
I could understand that when I was a child,a little pest, when I shaved my hair and was covered in bruises, but I don't understand what was wrong with me when I became a young girl.
For years this broke my heart, filling me with a sadness that even now I struggle to describe. A loneliness rooted in my heart, the lack of a family that can love me. No one has ever wanted to love me, no one ever wanted to adopt me and take me away from that horrible place.
But with time I came to terms with it, and began to depend exclusively on myself.
My voice also changed, it became more feminine, and only then did I notice, together with Vaerith, that I sang really very well.
He built me a harp with salvaged wood and broken strings from a violin that someone had thrown away in a rich folks' district. If I think about it now, it makes me laugh: it had a truly terrible sound, but I didn't care, to me it was a wonder created by our own hands.
I sang in front of my friend, then to my stepbrothers and stepsisters, then on the streets in front of people, earning some money.
For the first time I no longer needed to steal, now I could buy bread, new clothes, though simple ones, with what I earned with my voice and my music.
How old was I when I earned my first coin? Twelve? Thirteen? You will surely remember it, perhaps it was the first time you really noticed me, when my voice echoed through the streets.
At fifteen I was kicked out of the orphanage, by then I was too old to be adopted by anyone, and old enough to have a life of my own.
They gave me nothing, not a coin, not a piece of bread.
I found myself without a home, which as much as I hated it, at least put a roof over my head and gave me something to eat everyday.
Then I knew true poverty and hunger.
Vaerith left Waterdeep during that time, for a reason that even now I cannot understand. He spoke of knowledge, of ancient texts and ruins to study.
He was always interested in these things. I also think I fell in love with him in those last years we were together.
A stupid youthful crush, which I never revealed to him.
I slept on the streets, in the passageways and under bridges, wherever I could find a minimum of shelter.
The money I earned on the street was not enough to eat decently. I became frighteningly thin during that time, weak and hollow-cheeked.
I even ended up living in the Field Ward, a district worse than the one I grew up in. But at least it allowed me to earn some coins working for criminal gangs.
I am not proud of it, but I stained myself with smuggling, selling illegal goods, theft and more. I never hurt anyone though, that was my only promise to myself: never to hurt those who didn't deserve it, never to become cruel like those bullies who beat me when I was little, or worse.
My appearance made it easy for me to bypass the guards, my smile convinced the most difficult buyers.
Was I sixteen, maybe seventeen years old? Some memories are confused in my head.
It was also the period in which I came to know a different kind of cruelty from men, a disgusting cruelty.
But I get shivers just mentioning it in this letter. You should have protected me from certain behaviors, but you never did, I always had to do it alone. Another of the reasons why I hate you.
Things improved, however. With a few profitable jobs, mainly smuggling, I set aside enough money to buy myself a new dress, and a decent harp.
For years I had seen bards playing in taverns, acclaimed by dozens, by hundreds, by men and women, young and old.
I learned to dance, sing, and play from some of them, and also to use a sword and a crossbow to defend myself from "indiscreet fans," as they called them.
At first I collaborated with some of them, dancing to their music, singing along with them or accompanying their voice with my harp.
Until I was good enough to perform on my own.
Finally I could leave behind the criminal life, and dedicate myself to what has always filled my heart with joy: art and music.
I never loved crowds, noisy events full of people, but performing on a stage was different. All those people shouting my name, laughing and rejoicing thanks to my music.
I could never give true vent to my art, after all my audience was composed of drunks and criminals interested in a different kind of music from what I liked to write, but it was fine with me anyway. I dedicated my music to myself; music about the adventures I aimed for, about the love I so much desired in my life.
For years I wrote songs, recorded ideas in a small notebook, but I never had the opportunity to sing what truly belonged to me.
That period wasn't easy either, I admit it, but at least I understood what my role is in this world, I understood that music is my escape route, and I understood that there is much more to me than a simple half-elf girl born poor in an orphanage.
Now I am on the deck of this ship. The ticket cost me everything I had, harp included. Murann is the destination, but this you already know. I haven't heard much about this city, and I admit that my decision to embark was guided more by instinct than by reason.
But anywhere is better than those streets, too many memories, too much pain, too much loneliness.
Murann will give me the chance to be a different person, a new person. Happy and never alone again, or so at least I hope.
As I look at the horizon I cannot help but think that finally I am beginning to live, that finally my life is full of different opportunities to seize.
I just hope Murann will be kind to me, since you never were.
I love you, and I hate you with all my heart.
To Waterdeep
With resentment, Aletheia
Little OOC info:
PC Aaron Hazelfall is Aletheia's twin brother, separated from her at birth, so she never knew of his existence until she met him in Murann.
Greetings to you, my old friend.
It is the first time I write a letter, and I have decided to dedicate it precisely to you.
I'm writing you this because I want you to know my story, what happened to me as I was growing up.
I need you to know that I existed, always beneath your cruel gaze, yet probably unseen.
My life has not been easy, but by now you should know this.
I am writing this letter to you with the little paper I have left because I feel it is my duty to do so. I wonder if you will ever read it.
I grew up on the streets of the Dock Ward, one of the poorest and unhealthiest areas of the city. For years my home was the Starry Cradles Orphanage.
Yes, I am an orphan. A half-elf orphan unaware of who her own parents are, whether she has brothers or sisters, apart from the countless ones grown up together with me in that orphanage.
But those were fake and cruel, selfish brothers and sisters, who never wanted me, who mocked me for my pointed ears and treated me like an outcast.
I never had a place, a role in that orphanage.
I wonder if you had ever noticed me during that time, if you had seen my loneliness, the tears streaming down my face at every stone they threw at me. If you knew that I suffered every day wondering why my parents had abandoned me. But probably you were too busy with other things to notice the existence of a small and sad half-elf girl.
Growing up in an orphanage run by the Selunites was exhausting: all those rituals, those ceremonies, those prayers to the Goddess every day. Some Selunites were kind to me, despite my difference, despite my origins, others were not.
Although I was not an easy child, I admit it.
I was an unmanageable pest: I ran away every time I could to hide in the streets or on the rooftops, I stole bread and sweets from nearby bakeries, once even a shawl from an old lady, I cut my hair short to look like a little boy and fought soundly with the bullies.
I lost every time, as strength and the ability to brawl were never my thing.
And every time I returned to the orphanage, of my own free will or forced by someone, I was punished. Sometimes a small, wooden whip, sometimes I sat alone for hours in a corner, sometimes even on my knees.
They were unbearable, horrible years. I was too small to understand the world, to be able to face it and find a little space of my own.
The days were marked by prayers to Selune, horrible-tasting meals composed mainly of boiled turnips, me running away every time I could, punishments for my excessive liveliness, and yet more prayers to Selune.
Fortunately I met a good friend, maybe you remember him.
He was kind to me, he didn't seem to care about my impure blood, mixed with the elven one, about my origins even more modest than his.
We played together all the time, running through those smelly streets, trying not to step on the beggars and the dead. Every now and then we ran away to the richer districts, playing and pretending to be the children of some noble or wealthy merchant. Pretending to be someone else, to have a better life, to be adventurers and fierce warriors capable of facing dragons, that was our favorite game.
He also protected me from my bullies, both on the streets and outside the orphanage, and he had the strength and skills necessary to do so.
And with what ferocity he did it, even using his teeth if necessary. In a short time, few dared to lay their hands on me, and usually they were the ones too big and mean even for him.
Vaerith, my first and only friend.
During that time we both learned that fleeing can also be an excellent strategy.
I grew up faster than I thought. In a few years I became a young lady, graceful and delicate, finding myself by then unable to disguise myself as a boy.
But no one ever wanted to adopt me. In all those years, stepbrothers and stepsisters from the orphanage came and went at alternating paces. Not that I cared, they hated me, and I hated them.
But no couple ever showed even the slightest interest in having a first meeting with me, let alone adopting me.
I could understand that when I was a child,a little pest, when I shaved my hair and was covered in bruises, but I don't understand what was wrong with me when I became a young girl.
For years this broke my heart, filling me with a sadness that even now I struggle to describe. A loneliness rooted in my heart, the lack of a family that can love me. No one has ever wanted to love me, no one ever wanted to adopt me and take me away from that horrible place.
But with time I came to terms with it, and began to depend exclusively on myself.
My voice also changed, it became more feminine, and only then did I notice, together with Vaerith, that I sang really very well.
He built me a harp with salvaged wood and broken strings from a violin that someone had thrown away in a rich folks' district. If I think about it now, it makes me laugh: it had a truly terrible sound, but I didn't care, to me it was a wonder created by our own hands.
I sang in front of my friend, then to my stepbrothers and stepsisters, then on the streets in front of people, earning some money.
For the first time I no longer needed to steal, now I could buy bread, new clothes, though simple ones, with what I earned with my voice and my music.
How old was I when I earned my first coin? Twelve? Thirteen? You will surely remember it, perhaps it was the first time you really noticed me, when my voice echoed through the streets.
At fifteen I was kicked out of the orphanage, by then I was too old to be adopted by anyone, and old enough to have a life of my own.
They gave me nothing, not a coin, not a piece of bread.
I found myself without a home, which as much as I hated it, at least put a roof over my head and gave me something to eat everyday.
Then I knew true poverty and hunger.
Vaerith left Waterdeep during that time, for a reason that even now I cannot understand. He spoke of knowledge, of ancient texts and ruins to study.
He was always interested in these things. I also think I fell in love with him in those last years we were together.
A stupid youthful crush, which I never revealed to him.
I slept on the streets, in the passageways and under bridges, wherever I could find a minimum of shelter.
The money I earned on the street was not enough to eat decently. I became frighteningly thin during that time, weak and hollow-cheeked.
I even ended up living in the Field Ward, a district worse than the one I grew up in. But at least it allowed me to earn some coins working for criminal gangs.
I am not proud of it, but I stained myself with smuggling, selling illegal goods, theft and more. I never hurt anyone though, that was my only promise to myself: never to hurt those who didn't deserve it, never to become cruel like those bullies who beat me when I was little, or worse.
My appearance made it easy for me to bypass the guards, my smile convinced the most difficult buyers.
Was I sixteen, maybe seventeen years old? Some memories are confused in my head.
It was also the period in which I came to know a different kind of cruelty from men, a disgusting cruelty.
But I get shivers just mentioning it in this letter. You should have protected me from certain behaviors, but you never did, I always had to do it alone. Another of the reasons why I hate you.
Things improved, however. With a few profitable jobs, mainly smuggling, I set aside enough money to buy myself a new dress, and a decent harp.
For years I had seen bards playing in taverns, acclaimed by dozens, by hundreds, by men and women, young and old.
I learned to dance, sing, and play from some of them, and also to use a sword and a crossbow to defend myself from "indiscreet fans," as they called them.
At first I collaborated with some of them, dancing to their music, singing along with them or accompanying their voice with my harp.
Until I was good enough to perform on my own.
Finally I could leave behind the criminal life, and dedicate myself to what has always filled my heart with joy: art and music.
I never loved crowds, noisy events full of people, but performing on a stage was different. All those people shouting my name, laughing and rejoicing thanks to my music.
I could never give true vent to my art, after all my audience was composed of drunks and criminals interested in a different kind of music from what I liked to write, but it was fine with me anyway. I dedicated my music to myself; music about the adventures I aimed for, about the love I so much desired in my life.
For years I wrote songs, recorded ideas in a small notebook, but I never had the opportunity to sing what truly belonged to me.
That period wasn't easy either, I admit it, but at least I understood what my role is in this world, I understood that music is my escape route, and I understood that there is much more to me than a simple half-elf girl born poor in an orphanage.
Now I am on the deck of this ship. The ticket cost me everything I had, harp included. Murann is the destination, but this you already know. I haven't heard much about this city, and I admit that my decision to embark was guided more by instinct than by reason.
But anywhere is better than those streets, too many memories, too much pain, too much loneliness.
Murann will give me the chance to be a different person, a new person. Happy and never alone again, or so at least I hope.
As I look at the horizon I cannot help but think that finally I am beginning to live, that finally my life is full of different opportunities to seize.
I just hope Murann will be kind to me, since you never were.
I love you, and I hate you with all my heart.
To Waterdeep
With resentment, Aletheia
Little OOC info:
PC Aaron Hazelfall is Aletheia's twin brother, separated from her at birth, so she never knew of his existence until she met him in Murann.
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