Hear me, and gaze upon the tale of a hero from Ainn Creige! His swelling misadventures, his rousing stories and bright fables, the carousing of his fingers across a lute, and his spirited, oh-so-chivalrous companions. At least that is the story I would like to write. I have mastered the ability to write an opening line, yes, but what comes after? A story of nobility? Of dancing blades and hope-filled twilights? A beast wrought from the Nine Hells, felled by the just hand of a loyal company? Imagination is already such a fickle thing. I feel as though I am a cat lured by an infinite ball of yarn, chasing endlessly until… Well, I’d rather not entertain the thought. Much empty parchment sits already gathering dust in my room, and the things I write of, and the songs I play are hollow. They lack the spirit that carries great stories and fervent notes. How would I know what a great hero would say in the face of defeat? How would I know what a lover would say were they to lose that which they cherish? All I know are the gray, breaking tides that crash into the even grayer shores of Ainn Creige. And yes, while my words sing like the melodies of morning birds, filled with bright colors that drip across an ocean of thought, they are monotonous, hence they are hollow. Words that are written only for the sake of being written, to escape into and feel as though I am beginning to understand who I am. You see, my parents are children of two tides, somehow harmoniously meeting in the middle. My father, Owain Treharne, comes from Caer Ghlann, and originally, northern Alaron. My mother, Alwena Gwynne Treharne, is a local here in Ainn Creige. The two were star-crossed lovers, having met at Bronwen’s Crossing some thirty years ago, and have been lovers ever since. Many don’t know, but Caer Ghlann and Ainn Creige are of two different clans with a deep seated rivalry that many don’t even seem to understand. Now, my father is all but estranged from his brutish family back in Caer Ghlann. One would think that love triumphs over all, and they surely think so, but what of the children they bore? Here I sit, cast between their two tides like a fish on a line, flailing helplessly. I am eyed in town, and rumors stir like toxic poison of my father’s heritage. They are happy, regardless, but I will resent them for it, naively, simply because I have nothing better to do here than to grovel. Yes, reader, this is the story you should anticipate; the groveling of a young man lost between two tides and two peoples. There will be no danger, no excitement, no wonder or woe, just the ramblings and doldrums of my written flatulence put on display. Turn back before I bore you to death, but don’t say I did not warn you. So I say again; hear me, and woe in despair upon this tale of a hero from Ainn Creige.
