Entry 1

The Kyrlund. A land of great beauty and awe, but one marred by a history of war and suffering. I lived there long ago, many years before your time, during a period in which everything I loved, everything I knew, and everything that ever mattered to me was in a constant state of flux. At the beginning of that point in my life, I was a boy of seventeen. By the end I was only twenty-four, but those seven years were, without a doubt, the most impactful. No experience since has changed me as much as that time did. The purpose behind this story isn't to recall those transformative years, though. Be patient, as those moments take a bit more than spare hours in the day to capture properly.

Instead, I'll be telling you of what came after.

I used to be a soldier, believe it or not. The end of that seven-year period marked the end of my time as property of Bovica, allowing me to set out on a life of my own choosing. Unfortunately, that freedom translated to a lot of tavern hopping. I had acquired a taste for cheap ale during my run in the military, one which had sadly proven too difficult for me to let go of. I slipped away from the southeastern cities within old Bovican territory and headed north, eventually finding my way back at Fort Sinder. 

War is hard, especially on the losing side, and the rebellion had put the denizens of Fort Sinder in a tough position: their choices were to either die for a lost cause, or run while their legs still had the energy to move. As you would expect, most chose the second option. The smart ones, at least. By the time I arrived, the fort had been abandoned, but remnants of the former inhabitants (those who were pushed out by Bovican soldiers during the fort's construction) began to slowly ease their way back into the area. I recognized some of them from the market all those years ago; the day that I left Tresin behind, not realizing that I would never again see it as it was.

That I would never again see my mother as she was.