Familiar scars.

On the eve of yet another barely bearable summer’s day, Klaen braces himself for the winds that would soon sweep through the cornfield. Winds that should bring comfort and relief in the heat of summer but, in reality, serving as nothing more than a pitiful reminder of the days to come.

Raising a tankard to the sky, he lets out a short, but very distinct bout of laughter. The same kind of laughter you hear when people finally realize the meaning of life in the last few moments of their mortal life.

Taking a sip of scavenged wine, the conflicted nomad looks toward the sky for answers. A man so full of denial but still having in him great capacity for deep insight; more than the others that surround him every now and then.

He ventures from one settlement to the next, without known purpose or tangible intent, but this wanderer’s words do not fall on deaf ears. The people are often willing and naive, not to his personal preference. Klaen enjoys a healthy (and sometimes not) verbal bout every now and then. This is, perhaps, a secondary purpose, explaining the constant travelling and chronic dissatisfaction as well as the reluctance, or rather, the inability to settle down in one place.

While most settle for the popular mortal gains such as fortune & companionship, Klaen is not so easily appeased. The hunger burns deep within his soul, ever demanding of a certain something. It is a constant mystery; even the man himself does not know what it really is, or if it even exists.

Wine seems to help, every so often (though not often enough), to drown the unrelenting voices in his head. He is not a man of darkness by nature and derives no pleasure from doing harm to others or by indulging in the dark arts. Klaen is also, by no means, a man of the light, with no conviction to do good by others.

He is but a man that does not belong; a man that has, perhaps, lived too long.


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