"Who do I turn to? And what do I do? I'm looking for answers, the lies, and the truth I thought I knew better, but I don't know shit It's gotta be out there – something better than this."

the years of your youth are blurred and fragmented - shattered in pieces lost and scattered to the wind. like most orphans, your origins are tragic and cruel; growing up on such wicked streets, understanding, far too soon, the folly of man.

your memory does not serve to remind you of the token, sick sibling, adopted during your harrowing childhood - how hard you tried to beg, plead, and steal for their welfare and well... we all know how it ends.

trust in yourself, boy. these memories are best left buried.

be it blessing, or curse, their departure was what spurred you to find the next ship out of port, it was what encouraged your silver-tongue enough to become a deckhand; it grew within you, a resolve to become enough.

"What is the meaning and where does it end? What does it matter until it begins? I can't go backwards, I can't give in Feels like the future is dying and the past is dead."

perhaps you were born with the inclination to feel the call of the wild - never content to stay in one place too long - that called you to the glittering gem of antiva. though, to be blunt, one should never simply hop aboard a ship and hope to meet kindness without motive. you found lessons within the grizzled salt-encrusted sailors, who boasted tales of lost souls, darkspawn, and quite often someone else feeling their footsteps dogged by the pressure of finality.

there was something in your naive heart that felt they may have cared for you, but how fickle even the most complicated beast can be. you overheard their plans to sell you, perhaps barter you, they weren't that cruel. one thing remained true despite the bonds forged - they were still strangers, pirates, as you'd come to find out far too late for you to simply quit.

you would not stay your hand, however, and allow them to profit off all your growth, no - you'd profit off them. through your trials and lessons on the sea, there had been a few that had grown a fondness of the plucky lad who looked more akin to a drowned sparrow fledgling and made it oh so conveninent to simply never return when you were ordered to fetch some supplies at port.

you never said goodbye. it was safer that way.

"So paint my portrait, the colors of my life and the untold stories are painted in black and white I can hear the footsteps that follow to my pulse; this paranoia has haunted me like a ghost."

after years at sea, returning to dry land was daunting, often you found yourself wistful of the salty constant. there was something so... unnerving about solid ground after you found your sea legs. as a result, you mostly found yourself working the docks, taking whatever menial jobs would get your next meal. that also meant jobs that were less than savory to the pearl clutching orlesian - who often preferred a more verbal game.

before it even began to process, you were running supplies for a local antivan gang, then you caught the notice of the crows. it was fairly unceremonious, essentially poaching you from a life of squallor into at least a life with a bed; you'd take the upgrade!

but you couldn't stomach the antivan way of life, you realized far too late, that, once again, you didn't fit into whatever mold they were trying to shape you into. perhaps you were a pirate? or were you an assassin? now old enough to decide for yourself, you made a potentially fatal choice to cross the crows - to leave. you would forever be looking over your shoulder, jumping at every errant shadow.

you would never again feel true peace.