The Journey Begins

An Introduction…of sorts.

I think about my own beginning too much. How I began, became who I am, what I want to be. I tend to find myself lost in a deep pit of abstract thoughts. How much could I have done differently? How much could I have changed my life? What could life have been like if my beginning was altered even slightly? I’m aware that I was birthed at one point in time, long ago… but… what consistutes my existence over anyone else’s that could have stood in my place? Why did it have to be me? Of all people… I tend to conclude that there must be some kind of fateful being, not out of a sense of faith but more out of necessity. So I can get on with my day. Leave the deep thought to people who have time to, right? Besides, the tales of the afterlife are vast and encouraging, but are equally as conflicting. It leaves most people not wanting to dedicate their lives to a particular person or thing. People like me who simply find existing tough enough and who really have bigger problems to deal with.

I’m no scholar. I’m no expert on what makes a good beginning. If I was presented with a book, I would laugh, having no idea what to do with the thing except use it as kindling… stories around a campfire are what warm my soul. Written word has a tendency to be burnt in this realm. However, even if the parchment this is written on is shredded and scattered to the winds, the fact that I, a washed-up old fool, have been driven to begin writing must mean something… so…

My name is Eagin. Only the nobles parade around their surname, since theirs actually holds weight. ‘Ol’ Eagin’ the village calls me, and I’ve grown used to it by this point. Though not actually the oldest in our village, the younger children that came up with the name tend not to see the really old folk. The couple that live out at the edge of the village really are ancient, approaching their 80’s and living out the rest of their days in their small hovel. I do go to visit, keeping their bread fresh and supplies filled but it’s the youngsters that see the most of me as I work my daily rounds. I should have mentioned, I’m the self-appointed village guard. Perhaps I’m not as good at beginnings as I thought I was. Well, it never stops bringing a smile to see those little ones oogle at my polished armour, though I know I wear it for a reason. It’s not because of any competition that there aren’t other guards, it’s simply that I’m the only one who is trained to be one. It’s not JUST so that I have trouble getting in the narrower doorways, but it does seem like it to the villagefolk. To be honest, I’d like it to stay that way.

I don’t know what it is about the animals surrounding the village as of late, but after Little Tipen got savaged, the energy in the town hasn’t been the same. We had Tip’s funeral yesterday and now I’m here at my table, having spent my small profits on a scrappy peice of parchement and ink. I have set aside this time to write, just before I go out at dusk to keep guard. Heavy woodlands surround our village, our main export being the timber and occasional hides it provides. There are also plenty of woodland streams where we can catch fresh water fish from, but there is a dedicated fishing village at the source. We tend to catch what we need, but that’s starting to get much more difficult.

Whether it is dawn, midday, dusk or night, normally passive creatures spot villagers and attack without hesitation. I was asked to escort the village healer, Yuellia, in gathering some herbs in response to the rising number of wild animal attacks and that was when I saw the things for themselves. Whether it was real or my mind embellishing events, their hides were unkempt and matted, eyes nothing more than hollow, empty pits. The pack tore recklessly at my steel plating. I tend to think I don’t fear many things, but those beasts made me hesitate in cutting them down for the briefest of moments. Though only a instant could be spent letting myself feel terror before my years of training took hold. I knew that if I couldn’t cut them down, I would be endangering the helpless lives of the people I owe my own life to protecting. But I don’t want to play hero. I don’t want to write down all my ‘heroic deeds’. I’m just as scared as everyone else, I’ve just tempered myself to not hesitate. Being the village guard doesn’t just involve knowing how to use a sword, it’s a lifestyle many more people could benefit from. Though, if nobody else can step up to protect us, it may as well be me.

I tried to keep my beginning optimistic, I can only apologise for the bleakness, but I feel like something much larger is beginning too.