Post by LAERTH SZANGORI on Apr 4, 2011 18:01:18 GMT -8
laerth szangori
IS MAKING ENTRY INTO ENDLESS MYTH
seventy-seven; dros; hunter;
loyal; affectionate; mischievous; daring;
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sven smits; whitlicious
IS MAKING ENTRY INTO ENDLESS MYTH
seventy-seven; dros; hunter;
loyal; affectionate; mischievous; daring;
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My name is Laerth. I am a Dros.
I was born into Esune in the depths of a dark cavern in a mountain. I remember always being cold, despite the warmth my kindred seemed to harbor. I was raised with the idea that my people were damned to this underworld of sorts by angels that descended from the sky. When I was a young spiderling both of my parents were burned to death by a rogue Ferus who stumbled upon our home, so you can understand why I posses a lingering hatred for the fire children, though it may be irrational.
I feel strongly about the fight for freedom my kind is struggling with. When I was younger I made sure to learn all I could about our supposed enemies and their weaknesses, as well as how to weave the strongest webs to capture prey and build obstacles. A friend of my deceased father was the one who taught me how to spin marvelous traps. My growing talent and potential to defend myself only fed my longing to hunt down and drain the life out of that Ferus. I was confident that I had a fire within that burned brighter than even that of the entire volcanic race. How foolish of me.
When I finally became a grown adult I was allowed to wander off on my own without the supervision of others. The world is a dangerous place, and I only enhanced that fact. I caught and killed intruders who had the intentions of exterminating my kind. My webs crushed their bones and stole their breath. I was a successful hunter, so why didn’t I feel satisfaction when I injected my venom into the enemies of the Dros? My captives were helpless when entangled in my webs. Their eyes pleaded with my own as I spun them into thick cocoons. At the time I would ignore their whimpering and their tears. Now I can no longer hold in my frustration – my sorrow – that I feel for them. I believe that my merciful heart will get me killed eventually.
I started to blame the Ferus from my childhood for my dysfunctional behavior. I was a killer. Killers kill. It is that simple. Every creature I caught, though, was a mistake. None of them had features similar to that of my parent’s murderer. If it wasn’t him, I would cut all of my victims loose and watch them scamper off into the swamplands.
Finally, I found him. I hadn’t a clue to why he was wandering around my homelands again, but I refused to let him leave alive. He evaded my tricks and burned my webs until they melted into useless goop. Suddenly I was the helpless captive. I know what it feels like to watch your death inch closer and closer until it is nearly enveloping you; swallowing you whole.
But he let me live, and I hate him for that.
Maybe he was just like me - told to fight and to protect his kind. Maybe he too finally reached a point where he could no longer do it anymore. Taking a life is easy only if you can detach yourself from the understanding that what you are taking is a living, breathing, thinking creature just like you. It has a family; a home. It is the same as you.
I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. My method of only scaring enemies away will not work for much longer. My kindred will discover my betrayal sooner or later. What will I do with myself then?
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sven smits; whitlicious
