A Memoir

[Note: This is a fictional piece detailing a character background for a game.]

To the poor deputy of Heldren that finds this,


My name is Corven Weiss.  I was born under an ill omen on 25 Rova, 4688 in Karakuru.  You will not find my family there -- poor, destitute farmers, we moved to Maheto in the World's Edge to seek fortune learning the secret of Mahetian steel.  My father and mother are deceased, and I leave behind only my little sister, Mira.  Mira is now a full twenty years of age, and I expect that she has made an honest bride to either a soldier or a smith.

My crime is twofold:

I am a deserter of the 8th March of the 3rd Company of Taldan Phalanx.  Upon achieving adulthood, I enlisted in Maheto, after growing up hearing tales of noble knight-captains in the Grand Campaign.  I was trained fully well in Oppara, the golden capitol, and deployed to Demgazi along the Jalrune River.  There, I witnessed both the excesses of Zimar and the brutality of the Border Wood.  More horrors than I can write here presented themselves, and the 8th March was largely successful.  Yet in those nightmarish woods, the March met its fate to a man -- aside from myself, a coward who ran from a Qadiran patrol even as they tore my fellows limb from limb, butchering each beyond the necessity of death.  I spent two full years lost in the Wood after the March met its fate, scavenging and hiding from the spiders.

I am also a follower of Sarenrae, which I acknowledge is a death sentence in this realm.  Her warmth gave me succor through those horrific moments in the Wood, lost and alone.  Her light guided me to a Vudrani Druid, who showed me how to survive using naught but my wits, and in exchange requested my sword.  I dare not name this Druid in writing, as he has done naught wrong except by Stavian's word.  Should he hear of this, though, do tell that I have upheld my vow.  In five years, I have not raised blade nor bow in anger.  Though Sarenrae has my worship, I have considered the word of the Fetters guidance in these harsh days.

For the past three years, I have maintained a lowly farm in Haldren, not far from that terrible Wood, voicing neither word of my desertion or of my worship.  I have simply been a quiet soldier, retired and seeking his living.  I can stand neither the isolation nor the lies.  I can no longer simply scare the local children off and hide behind my own past using the curtain of alcohol.

I leave to Mira my farm, of which there is little proceed due to my own proclivities.  You will find numerous barrels of alcohol of varying types, largely fermented from potato mash.  You will also find one mule, who responds to the name Clyde.  Please find Clyde adequate boarding, as he has done no wrong.  He will make a strong working mule for any farmer of good fortunes, and you can expect no less than six gold pieces from his sale.  The rest of my proclivities, including my still, an alchemist's set, and various and sundry farming tools, will likely find no home in this town.  All proceeds from the sale should make their way to Mira.

Today, I forfeit my life in Stavian's name, per his wishes.

Penned by my hand, 14 Calistril 4713 A.R.,
Corwen Weiss