Aldus Nordbert Grosbelhomme

Aldus Nordbert Grosbelhomme is a good name, my father would lie to me. "It is a name of someone well acquainted with work." No bard ever lyricized, nor dared tried to put rhyme or rhythm to such a cumbersome name. What hope, would the runt of nine children, have to make it in the world with such a name? Alas, it was my fate and destiny to start such a quest.

To the poor soul reading these pages, I apologize in advance for discovering my journal of thoughts and ramblings. Like my name, it has no rhyme or reason; no sensical logic to my writings. But somehow, by some miracle— or practical joke of the gods— I was born, even as a farm boy, with a love for reading and writing.

I write to seek to understand myself, and perhaps, if the fates are kind on my poor soul, scrawl about a life worth reading. But I wouldn't put any wagers on it.

How you came upon these writings is not important. I hope you find them helpful in learning a little bit more about the unimportant life of a man named Aldus.

They say the great stories and epics of our time are filled with contrast, juxataposition, and foreshadowing of things to come. As I reflect back on my early life and upbringing, I see no evidence of such. Nondescript, inconsequential, and dull describe my life as a youth. I was born in an unimportant town outside of Surik to humble parents with an irrelevant life. Being the youngest of nine children, I was often assigned the dullest and foulest of chores: mucking. I shoveled the muck, a mixture of manure and mud, from the different stables, barns, hovels, and corals on our dilapidated farm.

My father, Gumpert Grosbelhomme, was quick to remind us we were not poor; we were humble. It was a common lecture, to the point where I almost believed him. "Simple and humble is good and righteous." The holes in my only pair of shoes were a reminder that we both poor and humble. Father would get cross if I pointed out that simple truth.

But a poor life isn't an awful one. We had enough to scape by. Rare were the days I went to be hungry, and fewer still were the days I felt cold. Timber was abundant for warmth, and it is a feat to get cold in a small home with twelve people living in it.

My father was a devout of Waylumi, though my mother and his wife, Edberga, refused to let him teach the us children. My mother's religion was black cats, broken mirrors, and salt over the shoulder: superstition. While acknowledging the powers of the Gods, she staunchly clutched her lucky pendant and chose to believe in the god of fate.

It was a sore spot for my father, and twice a year our mother would allow us to attend a service at the temple. As you can imagine, nine children raised on superstition and farm work did not sit proper in the pews. You could feel the disdain and frustration ooze from High Priestess Radelia, the only elf woman I ever saw before coming to Gahlen.

She called us the "mudbringers," since our family brought in more dirt in a single day than the temple would see in a year. She said it was an endearing term, though I doubt she felt that way.

I can't complain, my early life, while void of adventure and promise, was also void of suffering and pain.

In hindsight, perhaps that was the juxtaposition of the fates: how could such a unimportant boy suffer a nigh intolerable loss?

My first few weeks in Gahlen were like discovering a whole new world. So many people. So many different kinds of people. Every day— no, every toll, was a new experience. Every experience was a first: mages wielding the arcane, shamans with their spiritual totems, seeing a trolahk, accidentally annoying a trolahk, fearing that trolahk, realizing that trolahk was a woman, apologizing to that trolahk — seems to be a theme here —, invasions, near deaths, new friends—

It was overwhelming.

I loved every breath of it.

As I read the history I wrote in the library halls of Gahlen, I can't help both laugh and cry at this naive soul. So much... excitement for life? Excitiment for the future? I can't even imagine such a state anymore.

I've attached a few of parchments from those days. My history, letters to my mother, and the letter from my sister that changed everything.

I should mention, I guess, my relationship with Zolixa. Out of all my experiences in Gahlen those first few weeks, meeting Zolixa was the one that brought the most wonder and made me feel amazing, yet acutely away I had no idea what I was doing; a bumbling farm boy. Even now, writing about her brings back those feels of adoration and desire; and can feel her warmth on my fingertips.

I still feel fondness for her, she is a dear friend— we just wanted and needed vastly different things. We couldn't give each other truly what we wanted and needed, no matter how much we cared about each other. Before fate nearly destroyed my life, I was drowning in a sea of emotions, unable to swim. I know I caused her pain, I just didn't know what else to do.

Zol, if you ever see this journal— I'm sorry.

I will never forget those words: "Come home." My whole world collapsed. I thought my world was already complicated: I cared fiercely for Zolixa, but we wanted such different things. Then this—

The journey home was excruciating. Three days, wondering, what would I find? Gods, what was left? I knew what I would find— I just couldn't believe it. It wasn't real.

And then it was.

Even before seeing, I knew. The stench of soot hung in the air. Smoke loomed over the hill leading to home— or what remained in it.

I remember running. Why did I run? I was already too late: ruin had come and gone. I couldn't run fast enough, yet inside I didn't want to arrive; to see the seven poorly dug graves of father and brothers; to see the grief stricken faces of my elder sisters, their eyes unable to cry.

To hear mother—

Closing my eyes I still see her, that haunted expression of pain and suffering, a body littered with shallow cuts. At night, I still -hear- her. Unnatural screams, coming and going as dreadful waves of agony. Her soul shredding apart from the inside— thread by delicate thread.

Jaenalia and Dafina had sheltered her in the only structure to still stand: the hovel where we slaughtered our smaller animals and smoked their remains. What a horrific little place to try and save your mother.

I can't remember much of those first days— I remember taking mother to the temple in town, getting the news that the cuts made were by a cursed weapon— the same weapon that would give me my scar. The clergy explained the weapon had inflicted a pain to the soul, which would cause her to scream uncontrollable for long bouts at a time. They tried to save her, but couldn't. A single cut could take months to heal that connection between body and soul. The countless cuts had condemned her to an unending life of misery.

I think I remember taking her to her favorite spot, the lake by our home, and letting her pass on and let her soul be at piece. We buried her next to father.

Fire took my family— our home— so I took the small stockpile of scrolls from Zolixa and set off to end their lives.

I can still hear their screams of burning alive— gods, why doesn't that bother me? What have I become?

Returning home had confirmed my fears: it had been an act of retribution. My damned letters home— apparently mother couldn't not tell everyone in town about her son. She was so proud. But the bandits demanded crowns for "protection," they thought I was becoming a Knight to finally bring an end to their lawless lives. The bandits made my family an example: we were wretched farmers, and always would be poor, wretched farmers, and those who dare aspired to more would watch their dreams, and lives, burn.

How do you live, knowing your actions, killed your family?

Had I become a merchant, would they still be alive?

I tried to return to Gahlen, the weight of fresh scars— physical and mental— but it was all a cloud. I couldn't be with Zolixa, I couldn't not be with Zolixa. I tried to throw myself into my training— I remember swearing my oaths to become a full Knight, trying to wash the blood of the last few weeks from my hands— and nothing worked. Numbness and pain seeped throughout my existence.

So I left, trying to find something— anything— to make it just stop; the nightmares, the memories—

The screams.

Will they ever stop?

I'm attaching the letters. These are just a few— I have countless more, I don't know what to do with them. I can't send them, yet I can't burn them. Each day I added a new damned letter to limbo in my bottom of my backpack. Every day, the weight slowly growing; deepening; suffocating—

Who knew the depths that parchment could drown the soul.

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