an excerpt from the Journal of Krish..
I trained for many years in the Grove, learning to be a storyteller. I did well, and learned from the Elders with the hope of one day joining their ranks. I knew the history of the People of the Valley, all the epic songs and stories that make up who we are. I did not learn from scrolls or books, but rather, from the minds of the Elders.
I learned not to forget.
I remember the war, all too well. I have composed several songs and ballads and in the tradition of our people, I have passed those on to other storytellers, to perserve the memories of that time. Tales of courage and honor, of heroic deads by the young men and women who fought the evil that had invaded our home, I sing of that in the stories I tell. I sing of the glory and bravery.
I remember much more then that.
I don't hear the clash of swords or the battle calls, but rather the wail of dying horses and the weeping of wounded men. The battlefield is not some green pasture, but rather a morass of mud and blood. A victorious day is the chance to survive to sunset and measured by the warmth of the fire and the amount of drink needed to wash away the smell of fear and death.
I can not forget.
Some welcomed us home as heroes, most shunned us. We won the war and lost our way. I don't talk about that. Sam and I sometimes do. A few times, when we were still all together, we would drink away the darkenss and tell the sad tales. But really, in truth, no one wants to hear that, to really know. That is why I write in this journal. Someday, some one may want to know.
I will never forget.
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