Post by Dubhlidais on Jul 23, 2017 1:18:21 GMT -5
The woman calling herself Siska Rentry pulled a cloak around her in the back room of the Keg and Anchor and began to write:
She tapped her fingers on the desk in thought.
Should I write down the names of all my brothers and sisters? No, I can make that up when I need it.
I'll need an excuse for being able to fight, but I haven't figured that out yet. Servers don't fight. Unless I just keep using my right hand. I wonder if that would work? Would people buy it?
The duty cook poked his head into the living room "Siska, what are you doing back there?" he asked. "I could use some help up here."
"Sure thing," Siska said with a smile.
"I didn't know you knew how to read and write."
"Yeah, my mom taught me," Siska replied with a smile. Sometimes she didn't have to lie. Those were the times she liked best. After fifteen years she'd thought it was safe, and she'd finally returned to her real name. That had lasted, what, two days? If she'd made something up, she'd probably still be safe.
I'm the last, and that means never telling anyone the truth. I'm not her anymore, anyway. I'm nobody.
She hadn't allowed herself to think of "John" this evening. Finding a link to the past felt wonderful, like she was really herself again. The idea that she might have to kill him was too horrible to contemplate.
If it comes to that, I'm going to let him live and just slip into the shadows again. I've started over before.
Passing the stove, she threw the parchment into the fire and paused to watch it catch. She tied on her apron and got to work, casting a glance back from time to time until the story was gone. Except from her head, where it nestled closely against the other stories.
The most important thing about telling a story, especially your own, is to be consistent about it.
I was born in Britain, the youngest of five. My father was a trader who ran a caravan through Britain, Skara Brae and Yew. Unfortunately, he died when I was only four years old. I don't remember him at all.
From then, there was often not enough money to feed, clothe and house us. My mom prioritized food, so we rarely went hungry, but we often had to sleep in uncomfortable (or smelly) places.
While Minax was attacking Trinsic, a smaller group attacked Britain where we were living. Although this attack is barely remembered by history, it killed my entire family. I was ten.
I managed to escape to the Trammel facet, an entire world that never fell. I've basically lived in Britain since. I tried to run a trade route when I was in my late teens, but the truth is I just wasn't qualified. I've generally made a living singing and dancing. And I don't like to talk about it, but occasionally I've entertained other ways to keep alive.
Recently I managed to get some part time work in Britain as a server, but not enough. That triggered a move to Trinsic. I've become a full-time server. I'm now 27 years old.
I was born in Britain, the youngest of five. My father was a trader who ran a caravan through Britain, Skara Brae and Yew. Unfortunately, he died when I was only four years old. I don't remember him at all.
From then, there was often not enough money to feed, clothe and house us. My mom prioritized food, so we rarely went hungry, but we often had to sleep in uncomfortable (or smelly) places.
While Minax was attacking Trinsic, a smaller group attacked Britain where we were living. Although this attack is barely remembered by history, it killed my entire family. I was ten.
I managed to escape to the Trammel facet, an entire world that never fell. I've basically lived in Britain since. I tried to run a trade route when I was in my late teens, but the truth is I just wasn't qualified. I've generally made a living singing and dancing. And I don't like to talk about it, but occasionally I've entertained other ways to keep alive.
Recently I managed to get some part time work in Britain as a server, but not enough. That triggered a move to Trinsic. I've become a full-time server. I'm now 27 years old.
Should I write down the names of all my brothers and sisters? No, I can make that up when I need it.
I'll need an excuse for being able to fight, but I haven't figured that out yet. Servers don't fight. Unless I just keep using my right hand. I wonder if that would work? Would people buy it?
The duty cook poked his head into the living room "Siska, what are you doing back there?" he asked. "I could use some help up here."
"Sure thing," Siska said with a smile.
"I didn't know you knew how to read and write."
"Yeah, my mom taught me," Siska replied with a smile. Sometimes she didn't have to lie. Those were the times she liked best. After fifteen years she'd thought it was safe, and she'd finally returned to her real name. That had lasted, what, two days? If she'd made something up, she'd probably still be safe.
I'm the last, and that means never telling anyone the truth. I'm not her anymore, anyway. I'm nobody.
She hadn't allowed herself to think of "John" this evening. Finding a link to the past felt wonderful, like she was really herself again. The idea that she might have to kill him was too horrible to contemplate.
If it comes to that, I'm going to let him live and just slip into the shadows again. I've started over before.
Passing the stove, she threw the parchment into the fire and paused to watch it catch. She tied on her apron and got to work, casting a glance back from time to time until the story was gone. Except from her head, where it nestled closely against the other stories.