I always seem to find trouble starting a story. So I suppose
I shall do things the easy way and start from the beginning.
I grew up in a small nomadic tribe deep within the desert.
My people were a proud and strong breed of malor. We
moved with the seasons and ate from the land. We were
fortunate that the land provided us with much sustenance.
My life was rather uneventful and what one would consider
normal for the southlands, until I reached the age of sixty
three. Still very young, for my people have longevity as far
life spirit is concerned.
An innate ability deep within me made itself aware
at that point. I was lucky enough to have been gifted with
Sight. The village shaman immediately took me in as his
apprentice. My mother and father were very pleased with
this. To be apprenticed to a shaman is a great honor in my
tribe. I studied under him for fifteen years and he revealed
to me the elementary study of the shaman. I was slowly
learning to unravel life's mysteries and I relished in that
thought. I learned much about herbs and their specific
uses and I seemed to particularly excel at that.
One night shortly after my sixty eighth birth cycle my
village was raided and ransacked by a slaver caravan.
My people, proud that they were foolishly fought back
and many of them died. I was one of the few lucky
enough to survive because of my perceived wit and
intellect. I traveled for two years as a slave to my new
Master. I was made to make him a plethora of herbal
remedies and tinctures for which he sold on the road at
a high price.
Two cycles later my Master grew tired of me and brought
me to the block in Darmahk. I was purchased and became
the new property to a man by the name of Quidon. I was
with him for a short time and proved myself successful
and worthy in his eyes. I was set free and am now a serf
in Darmahk and seeking to find my way within this town.
I aim for citizenship and companionship. I am now eighty
years of age at the time of this writing.