Southerness

[Abeam 511]

 

Oftentimes you find yourself wrapped in the pattern of fate, weaved into the pattern like a single gossamer thread amongst a tapestry spanning the world.  The pattern weaves as the pattern wills, leaving those in the way bouncing betwixt the lands.  Mladen Nicodemus knows this well, that most arrogant of Kaedrini youth.  Born unto the short-lived relationship of Burgher and Peasant, and brought up in the world amongst the swamps and tundra of Kaedrin; Mladen’s world turned into opposite order, like a butterflies winged form, mirroring the other half, yet turned about.  The desert heat, and blistering sand of Al-Wakrah should not of appealed to this young man, however life works in mysterious ways, and within the harsh nature of this land lies familiarity, and the bonding of a people most noble.

Qalasheen are a modest people, their bodies hidden amongst silk and thin linen, modest in appearance, despite the seductive exoticness of their forms.  Speaking half in common, half in a strange traditional dialect of little meaning to Mladen; Qalasheen often showcase their meanings with bold accents of movement, waving their arms about in excitement, and speaking with a gleam in their dark eyes as sharp as the desert sun.  Friendship comes naturally to this people, their modest ways frowning upon the art of boast and showiness; rather, compliments take the place of arrogance, support takes the place of sarcasm, and intrigue finds itself in a losing war with compromisingly forthwith behavior.

That most delinquent of boys, Mladen, sits often on the roof of his small manor, deep within the bowels of the upper-district.  With the unforgiving sun finding itself in a compromising situation with a rooftop sun-umbrella, the young man often sits under its shady bows; reading, writing, drinking, smoking, and generally enjoying his time under the rainless sky.  When not in a half-drunken stupor, the Kaedrini boy finds himself contemplating his Father's’ letter, that letter that brought Mladens gossamer-like thread into the pattern of Vandoria.  One thought in particular shines as bright as the white-sand of the desert.

 

“They told me, son, you’re special.  You were born to do great things.  You know what?  They were right.”

 

[Rig 17590]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.