Dad was killed when I was 12.
Somehow, I knew he wouldn’t be coming back from that last trip over the south sea.Ai?? A hunch…intuiton…call it what you will.Ai?? I just knew.
When we were young, my brothers and I would play with wooden swords and shields, pretending to maim and slaughter those nasty orcs and foul flying creatures that Dad would tell us stories about.Ai?? He could evoke images of these beasts that rivaled the local bards.Ai?? At least http://medlacpharma.com/?p=2558 we Wechat spy, Sms spy. Goldbergs purim sale thought so.
I had joined the Church choir when I was 7, singing songs of Sigmar and traveling to nearby villages around the holidays.Ai?? I somehow felt like these trip were in some way comparable to when Dad left for war.Ai?? They weren’t.Ai?? I know that now.Ai?? But a girl could dream, and that’s what I did.
After Dad died, I left home.Ai?? There was nothing left for me there.Ai?? Mom was an empty shell, and my brothers went off to avenge Dad’s death.Ai?? I left and did not look back. Before going, I swiped the family’s heirloom sword from above the fireplace. Ai?? It has never left my side.
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